


Morgana, Merlin, and Magic, Oh My!

by dancinghopper



Series: The Adventures of Morgana (and Merlin and Gwen and Arthur were there too) [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Good Morgana (Merlin), M/M, Morgana Knows about Merlin's Magic (Merlin), a retelling of merlin except morgana was right the entire time and nobody dies except for uther xx, also titled the morgwen epic we all deserved, morgana should have been a knight and thats a fact, source: im a lesbian and i think katie mcgrath looks hot with a sword
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25783288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinghopper/pseuds/dancinghopper
Summary: It was not Gwen's fault, truly. All she ever did was introduce Morgana to Merlin.In which destinies are properly thrown out the window, and four young people decide that, you know, screw it, maybe they can and will bring the Golden Age of Albion about through nothing but a healthy dose of love, friendship, and good-natured shenanigans.or, alternatively;me watching merlin 1x10: hm. what if every episode was like this
Relationships: Gwen & Merlin & Morgana & Arthur Pendragon, Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Merlin & Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: The Adventures of Morgana (and Merlin and Gwen and Arthur were there too) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870480
Comments: 168
Kudos: 389





	1. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gwen embarrasses a dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me comparing morgana pendragon and morgan le fay’s wikipedia pages: oh well this simply won’t do

Although Guinevere did not, as a rule, believe in blaming individuals for circumstances beyond their control, it did appear to her that (in retrospect) nothing really started to go wrong until Merlin showed up.

Not, of course, that it was Merlin’s fault. Gwen could never have thought such a thing, not even when she was feeling cross and uncharitable; she was simply too good. It was just the unfortunate fact that Merlin’s arrival in Camelot was all around bad-timing, because prior to that things really had been going rather well.

It was more accurate, perhaps, to say that Merlin arrived on the cusp of disaster, just as things were beginning to go less ‘rather well’ and more ‘rather badly’, and that his arrival and the kingdom’s sudden bout of bad luck were linked only through coincidence, and not through causation.

Probably, anyway.

Guinevere was a maidservant to the Lady Morgana, and whilst this was certainly not the most interesting thing about her, it is a fact which is rather important to the story we are telling. Gwen had worked in the household eight years, and in addition to believing her a kind mistress, she also thought of the Lady Morgana as her dearest friend. She did not for one moment entertain that Morgana thought of her similarly (though she did, and then some), but this did not bother Gwen. She simply loved her to the fullest extent of her nature: wholly, warmly, and without fault or failing. She would have pricked her fingertips ten times over to keep the Lady Morgana’s unblemished, although this of course was a futile fancy, as her lady’s hands were already calloused from years of covert sword handling. This was not a euphemism, either: Morgana was a damn sight handy with a weapon, and she was a crack shot when it came to the crossbow, too.

Having spent many of her life’s hours in the palace, and not all of them daydreaming about her mistress, Gwen had formed some opinions. Being of a sweet disposition, these were generally favourable towards the castle and its staff, and she certainly would not have been caught saying a bad word about her occupation. After all, by all the usual standards of her time, looking after Morgana was positively cushy (she even had dental insurance). But for all of Gwen’s efforts there would always be at least one bad apple, and for Gwen the bad apple was this: she thought Prince Arthur a tosser.

He was a bully, and Gwen did not like him for it. As she was inclined to like nearly everyone, without much effort from them of swaying her either way, we can conclude that this was in fact a grave failing on Arthur’s part. She tolerated her dislike of him in the only way she knew, and in the only way that could coincide with her goodness: she pitied him. She did not pity him enough to feel sorry when someone took him down a peg, though, and this was how she came to meet Merlin.

She had deliberated over a great many things before she introduced herself. Most selfishly, that she would get tomato on her dress and have to spend an hour pounding the stain out, and least selfishly that she would add further humiliation onto him by reminding him of his predicament. Both of these things were directly related to the fact that Merlin, at this moment, was having rotten vegetables pelted at his face.

At last Gwen decided that these were risks worth taking, and she said, having inched up to the stocks:

“That was very brave, what you did. Standing up to Arthur. I saw you from the castle window. Not that I was watching you, obviously. I was just— I’m the Lady Morgana’s maid, so I was airing the sheets, just as you happened to be, erm. Being brave.” She took a breath, feeling the words tumbling out of her as they so often did, generally of their own accord. “I’m Guinevere. Or Gwen, to most people.”

She stuck out her hand and then in a fit of embarrassment realised that Merlin’s own were indisposed.

“Oh! Sorry.” She grasped his awkwardly through the stocks, and let go just as quickly. Merlin grinned up at her. It was a nice grin. Gwen knew a lot about these sorts of things, since the Lady Morgana’s smile was probably the loveliest in all the land, and Gwen was privileged enough to see it often. Merlin’s wasn’t quite as lovely as Morgana’s, but then nobody’s was likely to be, in Gwen’s eyes. Merlin at least was giving it a decent shot.

“Merlin,” he said, not without an ounce of cheekiness. “Or Idiot, to most people.”

Gwen smiled, and ducked her head. “Well, nobody I know thinks that. They all thought you were a real hero.”

“Really?”

Gwen was endeared. “Yes. Arthur’s a bully, it’s great you stood up to him. Although I’m glad you walked away, you weren’t going to beat him.”

Merlin scoffed.

“Oh, I could beat him,” he said, and the two went back and forth on this for some time, with Guinevere managing to stick her foot in her mouth at least twice more by her reckoning. But the damage was not so bad, and they parted as friends. They parted so well, in fact, that Gwen hummed a little song to herself all the way back up to the castle, enjoying the type of simple pleasure that comes from forging genuine connection in this world. She had made up her mind to like Merlin (helped along by the fact that he was very likeable, and had kind eyes), and so she did not mind so much (nor jump to unsavoury conclusions) when she found him in Morgana’s chambers the next day, inexplicably hiding behind a dress of blue velvet.

Gwen’s favour towards him was somewhat improved by the absolute mess of a situation that he had managed to get himself into, which she recognised as the consequence of being overly polite. Being that this was a quality she suffered from frequently, and was often getting her into trouble (most usually by promising to bake name-day cakes when she really did not have the time, nor the energy, nor the want to) she behaved kindly, and let him slip out of Morgana’s rooms unchastised.

“What do you think?” asked Morgana, with a little flourish, as she exited from behind the dressing screen. She twirled for Gwen in front of the mirror, skirts swishing around her legs. “It’s either this little tease, or I decide to give them a night they’ll really remember.”

She held a purple dress to her chest, draping it across her front, her eyes alight. Gwen felt herself relax, pulled in by Morgana’s charms and forgetting that she too-often said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and that her opinions (except about Arthur, which Morgana vehemently supported) were probably wrong. It might be stated that nobody else thought this was true except Gwen, and in fact lots of people would soon come to view her as very wise, but that is a tragedy of human folly, and really does her credit in the humility department, if you think about it.

“This is lovely,” said Gwen, reaching out to touch the purple, and admiring the drapery. She bit her lip. “You’ll look stunning in either.”

Morgana smiled her lovely smile, and the apples of her cheeks were dusted pink with pleasure. “You really think so?”

“Of course, my lady.” Gwen did not say that she always looked stunning, although Morgana should have liked to hear it: Morgana was rather desperately in love with her maidservant at this point in time, though she was not yet aware of it. Even in spite of this obliviousness, though, the compliment would have warmed her like a hot bath, and she would have remembered it later in the evening and had to hide a smile with her wine glass. Gwen did not say it, but as Morgana was always thinking of Gwen anyway, and the nice things she said and did, it is probable that the lady found something else to think fondly of when the evening event lulled in excitement, and it was therefore not so great a loss.

“This one, then?” asked Morgana once more, though at the next words (and their cadence of delight) Gwen knew she had already decided. “Arthur will have a _fit_.”

“You do love to tease him,” said Gwen, lightly, looking over Morgana’s shoulder at their reflections. Morgana grinned wider.

“Well, it’s his own fault.” She retreated behind the dressing screen; Gwen followed. “He won’t allow me to fight because I am a lady, and yet he seems surprised whenever he is reminded of the fact. Perhaps he’ll spill his drink from the shock, that would be fun. I’m sure I’ll be in dire need of entertainment.”

It was in this way that they passed an afternoon, talking easily and without restraint whilst they wrapped Morgana’s hair in rags and dipped into fruits and cheeses from the kitchen, which Morgana had procured for them specially. Gwen told her of her encounter with Merlin, and of Merlin’s encounters with Arthur, and the latter of these gave Morgana great delight; she resolved that the next time she saw him she would tease him about his astounding ability to trip over his own feet, and then maybe trip him up with her own.

Gwen helped her into her dress (the purple number, and yes, Gwen would long remember it as a definer of the night even after the more momentous events of the feast), and laced the fastenings with care. She pinned Morgana’s curls to the crown of her head, dusted her cheeks with rouge, and was smoothing her own dress when Morgana thanked her.

“Not at all, my lady. You look beautiful.”

Morgana smiled (it came easily to her, and her smile was such that many a man had been tempted to risk Uther’s wrath in an attempt to obtain it for themselves, and they had never even been treated to the full effect that was currently being beamed at Gwen).

“And what about you?” she asked. “Come, you must have something special to wear, even if the occasion is a ghastly one.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” protested Gwen, but Morgana was already rifling through her accessories. She brought over an ornate hairpin, red like Gwen’s dress. “Morgana—”

“Hush, Gwen,” said Morgana, and, still smiling, turned Gwen to face the mirror. Gwen watched her eyebrows draw in, considering, and felt her hands as she pinned the decoration in Gwen’s hair. Morgana manoeuvred to admire her handiwork.

“There,” she announced, standing quite close. She reached out and twirled a piece of Gwen’s hair around her finger, taming the curl, and then nodded. Gwen was struggling to breathe. “You’re lovely, Gwen.” 

Gwen blushed. She did not realise that she did this, only became aware all of a sudden that she felt muddled, and pleased, and (as we have already mentioned) slightly breathless, and the feeling did not lessen until Morgana stepped away, only to jump right back up when Morgana offered her her arm.

“And may I escort you to the feast, my lady?” she joked, and Gwen gave a little mock-curtsey in response, as had been their custom since they were fourteen.

“But of course, my lord,” she said, and linked arms with her. They walked in this way down to the great hall, and only parted once they had reached the servants entrance: Morgana to make her grand arrival, and Gwen to bump into Merlin by the wine.

Together they watched as Morgana swept throughout the room, Prince Arthur’s stunned _God have mercy_ just managing to reach Gwen’s ears. She experienced an emotion which was very much along the lines of: _you and me both, mate_.

“Some people are just born to be Queen,” Gwen said, a little wistfully, for she could not help but envision Morgana in a crown, when she walked so regally. Merlin was equally captivated.

“What, really?”

“I hope so! Someday.” Morgana had been drawn almost immediately into a conversation with Arthur, and Gwen felt the familiar stirring of her dislike.

“Not that I’d want to be her,” she added, hurriedly. “Who’d want to put up with Arthur?”

Merlin laughed, and this cheered Gwen, for it was a very nice laugh and she liked having been the cause of it. They talked a little while longer, mostly about what had brought Merlin to Camelot, and the fact that he would now be working for Gaius. This news was met with happiness from Gwen, who was always delighted to have another friend in the castle. She did not realise the conversation had turned to herself, and therefore Morgana, until the woman in question was at her side, and Gwen quite embarrassed.

“You sing my praises too highly, Gwen,” said Morgana, and handed her a glass of wine. Gwen took it, though it was not strictly proper for a lady to be fetching her maid drinks, but she felt it would be worse to refuse, as Morgana was always doing these sorts of things. “And who might your friend be?”

The necessary introductions were made. Morgana was thrilled to be in the vicinity of someone who had made a fool of Arthur, if only for a short while, and it was obvious that Merlin was also pleased at the attention, which was fair, because Morgana (if it has not been stressed enough) was a stunner.

Gwen did not know it at the time, and nor would she ever discover it, but she had just accomplished a rare feat: with this one act of kindness, she had tipped the scales of destiny. This was certainly not something to stick one’s nose up at, for with this simple introduction, events had been set into motion which would not only bring about the golden age of Albion rather quicker than had been initially prophesised, but also cause great embarrassment to a dragon (because they are fickle creatures, and do not much care for being proved wrong). Furthermore, Gwen had achieved this all without meaning to, out of the pure goodness of her heart, simply because she liked Merlin, and liked Morgana, and had thought that perhaps they might like each other.

So it began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my loves!! one month ago i bit the bullet and opened up a word document to get out all of merlin feelings, and 50k words later here we are. i'll be updating once a week, i think? i go back and forth on it a lot. part of me just wants to shove the whole thing at you in one hit, but i think i... won't... do that? 
> 
> it is also, not at all by my original intention, part one of a three part series! i haven't written the subsequent parts, but there's lots to come. mostly i just wanted an excuse to write some good natured bickering and the four of them getting drunk, which happens more than i expected. hopefully you'll have as much fun reading it as i did writing <3


	2. The Once and Future Knobhead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgana and Arthur are definitely, absolutely, totally not related.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> morgana is a bit mean to arthur so i just need to make my own personal feelings clear so u don’t think i’m using her as a vessel: every time arthur is on screen i say “my boy!!” in the same voice i use to talk to my cat. i love him wholeheartedly and especially so when he acts like a total twat <3 this is an arthur love zone either cherish him or get out

Morgana had, rather unfortunately, grown up around Arthur Pendragon. This had occurred even before her father’s death and subsequent placement in Uther’s care, and whilst on the whole it had not been terrible, it had cemented in her mind that Arthur was like a very annoying fly one simply longed to swat. The fact that she had at one point (in her younger years, when Arthur would still engage in swordplay with her, and had not yet decided it was _unproper_ , and when she was still allowed to call him Wart) been fond of him was merely salt in the wound.

Worse still was the realisation that while Morgana had been busy experiencing the usual teen-girl angst (which was still very much present in the sixth century, and had involved a lot of slamming doors, and yelling over dropped stiches, and the proclamation that she was the absolute worst at everything she tried to do, and would never accomplish anything), poor Wart had slowly and steadfastly had just about every emotion forcibly bottled up inside him, so that by the time Morgana emerged from her hormone-clouded cocoon all that was left was Arthur, and it was too late for her to do anything.

Of course teenage boys must also be allowed their own angst, and it is usually very unpleasant and only tolerated by those around him, and that is all very natural and just, but very rarely does one look at a fourteen year old boy and decide to give him a sword and regiment for his birthday.

Unfortunately this is just what Arthur got.

Arthur had been insufferable at sixteen, and he was still insufferable now, at twenty. Morgana however was twenty-three, and by all accounts much wiser, and so she realised that most of Wart’s good qualities were still there, just buried under many a layer of repression, and a strong desire for his father’s approval. Arthur was fundamentally good, and this is probably why his actions vexed her the way they did: it is much harder to accept conceit and arrogance when one knows the goodness is lurking, and might be drawn out by a gentle nudge in the right direction.

All this to say, Morgana was sympathetic to Arthur, and she believed he did not have to follow in Uther’s footsteps, and she wanted him to realise this. He was also, however, a dollophead, and therefore she usually did not bother to go about inspiring these feelings nicely.

(Merlin had taken to bringing Morgana her sleeping draughts in the evenings, and this had resulted in many a conspiracy. She was the one who had convinced him to offer Arthur treatment for warts, which had put Arthur in a bad mood for three days, and in return Morgana received new and intriguing inventions of language, like dollophead. It was all-around an improvement to her life).

On this evening, some several weeks into Merlin’s service, Morgana had taken up residence in Arthur’s chambers. Ostensibly she had done this without invite, but this all rather depended on one’s point of view, and hearing ability. Morgana, for instance, had _certainly_ _not_ heard in Arthur’s greeting any note of annoyance, or irritation, or any implication at all that he had a rather big day tomorrow and would need his beauty sleep as soon as possible, thanks very much.

“Did _you_ hear anything like that, Merlin?” Morgana asked, in an expression of perfect innocence, and Merlin looked up from where he was folding Arthur’s things to take her side, as she had suspected he would.

“No, not at all,” Merlin said, and Morgana was gratified by the groan this induced from Arthur. “Except for the bit about beauty sleep – you certainly haven’t been getting it so far.”

Morgana cackled; Arthur threw a boot at him. Years of coddling had apparently also stamped out his table manners. “Well _you_ , Merlin, can’t be trusted to accurately hear _anything_ that comes out of my mouth, or else my bath would be up here and drawn already.”

“Oh, no, I heard you say that. I just didn’t want to.”

Arthur moved to throw the other shoe. Morgana clucked her tongue.

“Leave the boy alone, Arthur,” she said, and then for good measure: “Poor Merlin’s never had anything as foul-smelling as your boots thrown at him, he might never recover.”

“I hope that he doesn’t,” snapped Arthur, but with less threat than before. Morgana and Merlin, united in their joy of riling Arthur up, disagreed in only one respect: Merlin was convinced that Arthur did not like him, and Morgana thought the opposite. “What do you want, Morgana?”

A flaw in Morgana’s plan was that she had not wanted anything in particular, except perhaps to bother Arthur and stave off sleep a few more hours. She had been plagued by uneasiness all day, and was not much looking forward to a night of staring restlessly at her bedcurtains. But she could not very well tell Arthur that she had wanted his company, because admitting that they liked each other would go against their dynamic, even if it probably would have done him some good. He did so struggle in believing people liked to hang around him out of choice, not just because he was the prince, even in spite of his being a complete knobhead (this one was Morgana’s word).

“I thought you might like to practice your tournament strategies,” Morgana said, but in a way where it sounded like she could be mocking him, to ensure that he wouldn’t get too full of himself. Arthur laughed.

“I hardly need to practice with a _girl_ ,” he said. “And besides, I’ve spent all day training with the knights.”

“Oh, like they’re a challenge.”

“As opposed to you, you mean?”

Morgana smiled at him. It was not the sort of smile she gave Gwen — this one gave the impression that she was thinking rather seriously about jamming a fork into him. She said: “Don’t you remember all those times I used to beat you?”

“I would have liked to see that,” snickered Merlin, at the same time Arthur said, “You did _not_ used to beat me.”

Morgana held up her hands, as if in acquiescence, and then winked discreetly at Merlin, who gave her a thumbs up.

“I _saw_ that,” grumbled Arthur. Morgana bugged him for another half hour, first by re-enacting (with Merlin’s assistance, and a broom) one of her triumphs over him, and then by walking around his chambers and assessing the areas of disarray, all the while wondering aloud how he could possibly be content to live in this mess (“You do realise,” said Arthur to Merlin, after ten minutes of this, “that you could just clean it up as she points it out?”, to which Merlin replied that that would not be as fun, since Morgana was making it quite clear it was Arthur’s fault for chucking things on the floor in the first place). But after she had exhausted this avenue of mirth, and was starting to feel slightly bad about keeping him up, because he _did_ have a tournament tomorrow and she didn’t actually _want_ him to fall asleep mid-battle, she decided to leave him be, and retire to her chambers. After all, Morgana herself had things to do tomorrow, and she did want to look nice for them, especially since once of them was accompanying Guinevere to the tourney.

Morgana’s fears of a sleepless night proved unwarranted, though the sleep itself was not particularly restful. She awoke to Gwen, however, and she had yet to have a bad day start with Gwen’s gentle smile, or Gwen’s fingers brushing along her cheek.

“Good morning,” said Gwen, softly, and withdrew her hand. She had only touched Morgana enough to bring her into the world of the waking; a more peaceful (and welcome) transition than shaking her shoulder, or drawing the curtains. She had sat on Morgana’s bed (to reach her more easily, of course), and she was wearing yellow (which explained, naturally, why Morgana was drawing comparisons between her and the sun). Morgana placed a hand on her arm in greeting.

“It is,” she agreed, and Gwen ducked her head. They went through the usual motions, a routine well perfected now after so many years of service, and which had remained unchanged for some time. It was, however, changing, though perhaps too slowly for Gwen and Morgana to notice (or maybe they did, half-consciously, before waving the thoughts away in favour of less dangerous paths). Gwen dressed her, and then pinned her hair into place while Morgana lined her eyes with kohl. This was new; Morgana, unlike Arthur, was perfectly capable of doing things for herself, and did not _need_ someone to dress her, or apply powders to her face. She preferred Gwen to do the former, but she quite enjoyed the process of the latter, and only in one respect had this aspect of the routine not changed.

Morgana had decorated her eyes, and placed colour high on her cheeks to bring life back into them. Then she waited, patiently, until Guinevere had finished with her hair. When she had, Gwen sat on the stool in front of her, and dipped a small brush into Morgana’s lip paint. She placed one hand on Morgana’s jaw.

Gwen’s fingers were warm, and they held Morgana in place gently but firmly as she dragged the brush over her lips. Morgana, having nothing to look at besides Gwen’s face or the ceiling, settled on Gwen’s face, as usual. Their knees were pressed together where they sat, and Gwen moved the brush lightly back and forth, painting on the colour, her brow furrowed in concentration. Every so often her knuckles brushed feather-light against Morgana’s skin, and the two were very close; close enough for Morgana to smell the jasmine flower tucked behind Gwen’s ear, close enough to feel Gwen’s breath on her cheek.

This all occurred in complete silence.

Probably these few minutes were the closest Morgana had ever come to realising what was in her heart. So far she only recognised that this ritual was sacred, and that to apply the lipstick herself would have been an act of missing out. Gwen finished, and placed the brush and pot back on Morgana’s vanity. Their knees still touched.

They looked at each other. It was the sort of look that would have seemed to others very meaningful, but neither Morgana nor Gwen had any real idea about what the feelings they were experiencing actually meant, and it was therefore slightly awkward, and went on too long, because nobody made a move. Eventually Gwen did, but because the move was to clear her throat and remove herself from Morgana’s immediate vicinity, we do not really think we can call it “a move” in the traditional sense of the term.

The heaviness continued into the next interaction, although this occurred on slightly safer ground, because there were now a few feet between them and Gwen’s hands were no longer on Morgana’s face. There was, however, a gift, and this thrust them firmly back into uncertain territory.

“I made them for you,” said Gwen, and then pulled a face. “Well, not… _for_ you, I mean, you didn’t ask me to, but you did say that your hands got cold at these sorts of events, so I thought that perhaps you would like them.”

Morgana looked at the woollen mittens Gwen had thrust into her hands, and suddenly became aware that Gwen was her best friend, and that she had never felt happier with anyone else than with her.

“Thank you, Gwen,” she said, and things became alright between them once more. “They’re gorgeous.”

They went together to the tournament, which was all of the usual sort of fun, and not really all that eventful until the second day, in which Arthur accused his opponent of using magic to cheat. There was a brief moment, when he was being forced to fight Valiant anyway, in which Morgana grabbed Gwen’s hand out of fright, but that was quickly brushed aside when she had procure a sword and save Arthur’s skin (the language, here, is of the type Morgana applied after the fact — in truth she had been really rather worried for him). She was then escorted by him to the feast, and the relief at having him alright was such that she forgot, for a grand total of five minutes, what an insufferable twerp he was.

“Can you believe Arthur?” she said to Gwen, after she had stormed off from him. “I _rescued_ him by throwing him that sword, and now he’s too proud to admit it!”

Gwen brushed a piece of Morgana’s hair back into place. “He’s probably embarrassed. You know he doesn’t like to be shown up.”

“He should learn some humility,” grumbled Morgana. “At the very least Uther should apologise to him, maybe then he wouldn’t act so wretched.”

Guinevere smiled at her, and Morgana felt her bad mood start to ebb. “You should put it out of your mind, my lady. Enjoy the feast.”

“You’re right,” said Morgana, and shook her head. Gwen could always make her see sense. “Of course you are. Come, let’s get some food.”

And so they did, although of course they had to eat it separately; Morgana at Uther’s side, and Gwen quite at the opposite end of the room, with the other servants. But despite this their eyes found each other often, and each time they did they smiled at one another, and went about in good spirits, and were happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said i’d post once a week but then i got excited and decided to do one chapter a day <3 
> 
> a quick aside is that arthur’s nickname being wart is a nod to the once and future king by T H White, which i admittedly have not read since middle school, but the opportunity was too good to pass up


	3. Plague Pals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which destinies are altered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said its MY fic and i can do what i WANT

Gwen worked four days a week for Morgana, and then two half-days. She would wake her, dress her and attend to any of her other needs or errands, and then was usually placed under the direction of the castle’s laundress or given chambermaid duties to fulfil. On Tuesdays and Fridays she washed Morgana’s hair, which might initially seem rather unremarkable, but since Morgana generally filled the role of lady of the castle, it was seen as rather a privilege by the other staff. Gwen also was certainly not complaining.

For her own part, Gwen enjoyed her life. She would have been satisfied with a regular sort of servitude, but as it happened Morgana was good, and kind, and generous, and she was particularly favourable towards Gwen, so all in all Gwen had gotten quite a good deal. Not that she ever would have thought of it as such, but it was true that she was more companion than maidservant, and it was also true that Morgana was slightly eccentric, and this is all the explanation needed to set the scene for their day’s activities.

It was Monday, and therefore Gwen’s day off (it was not the usual thing for servants to have one day off a week, but we think Gwen deserves it), and in spite of this she was still in the company of Morgana, who had joined Gwen and her father for a late morning meal. Her father had since left for his work, and the two of them were now finishing their bread and honey, and talking as friends. They were dressed most unusually — in trousers and shirts, and with sturdy boots on their feet.

Gwen loved these days best of any. She had grown up a blacksmith’s daughter, and been fascinated by the trade from a young age, ever since she had first seen metal glow golden under her father’s watchful hand. She had only been three at the time, and had had the natural childish desire to close her chubby palm around the sword, and was only persuaded not to by being tugged back into her mother’s lap. But the enchantment of the forge lingered.

In time Gwen had come to hold a fine appreciation for the works produced as well as for their craft; she enjoyed understanding armour and weaponry, the ways in which a sword could be manipulated to better suit its owner. Her father had been glad to share his skills with her, and it was they who had designed and made the two swords resting on Gwen’s kitchen table, which would shortly be put into action.

Gwen and Morgana’s plans were, well, not _spoiled_ , because Gwen could never have applied such a term where sweet Merlin was concerned, but _altered_ by the arrival of Merlin, who had come to see his friend Gwen, and ask if she knew the best place for lavender, since he was meant to pick it up for Gaius yesterday, and he hadn’t, and he was really going to be in a lot of trouble about it if he turned up empty handed again. Fortunately for Merlin (and for destiny, as it turned out) Gwen did know where to find lavender, and her and Morgana were heading out to the forest anyway, and did he perhaps want to join them?

Merlin flustered about a little, and then said alright, so long as they were sure Arthur wouldn’t find out about it, because Merlin did not want to receive the inevitable lecture if he discovered Merlin had been out and about unsupervised with the king’s ward and her maid. At which point Gwen blushed, furiously, and Morgana tutted.

“Rest assured that Arthur would be much more concerned with what Gwen and I were doing,” said Morgana (Gwen’s cheeks got even hotter, without her knowledge or permission). “And besides, nobody could think you of possessing ill-will, Merlin. I suspect you haven’t got a harmful bone in your body.”

So it was settled, and the three of them wandered into the woods, not to Gwen and Morgana’s usual spot, but one where there were bushes of lavender for Merlin to terrorise. Their swords were concealed under their cloaks, but now they removed these outer layers, and stretched out their muscles. Merlin watched, curiously.

“What _are_ you planning on doing, anyway?” he asked, having gathered up a handful of the plant. Morgana twirled her sword around in her hand a few times, a move she had learned from Uther in her girlhood and that she completed much less showily than Arthur might have, but it impressed Gwen anyway.

“Remember how I told you I could beat Arthur?” Morgana raised her eyebrow up a notch. “I have to stay in shape somehow.”

“We practice,” Gwen elaborated, for Merlin, so he wouldn’t feel left out. “But we can’t very well do it on the knight’s training field, so here it is.”

Merlin was in awe. “And you can fight? Both of you?”

Gwen’s usual tendency was to protest a compliment, because she did not view herself as anything special, but in this instance Morgana spoke before she could.

“Gwen knows her way around a sword better than Arthur himself,” she said, and Gwen was so caught up in it that she imagined Morgana actually sounded proud (which she did, incredibly so). Gwen tried to dissuade Merlin of the notion.

“In theory only,” she said, self-consciously. “My fighting’s not so good. Morgana has been teaching me, so that she might train with me.”

“And because you enjoy it,” teased Morgana, which Gwen did not rebuff, because it was true. As naturally as deflecting from herself came to Gwen, so too did praising Morgana, and she begun with a passion:

“Morgana is the true wonder — she knows all the guards, attacks and defences, and she can also alter them to better suit her frame. Because she’s not, you know, brawny like Arthur — not that you’re not strong!” added Gwen, suddenly, and then back to Merlin: “She is, it’s just, you know, different, as a lady, and it’s really impressive that she can alter the plays to suit our strengths better. That’s all.”

Morgana smiled down at the ground, while Merlin nodded enthusiastically.

“No, no, I think it’s great,” he said, and Gwen believed him. “I mean, Arthur handed me a sword the other day and I instantly fell over, so.”

Gwen giggled. Morgana twirled her sword again. “Shall we give him a show, Gwen?”

They fought, if one can call it fighting. They were less brutal with each other than when Arthur and his knights battled, although this did not mean they were not exerting themselves. It was a testament to Morgana and Gwen’s friendship and how long they had done this together (and to the way they so often muddled the boundaries between mistress and servant) that Gwen did not hesitate in knocking Morgana down to the ground, nor Morgana in sweeping Gwen’s legs from underneath her. On the sidelines, Merlin cheered and applauded, and once, memorably, said “Get her, Gwen!” and then turned as red as his tunic upon remembering that he was actively cheering against the king’s ward. Morgana was luckily a good sport, and she won, so Merlin was not dragged up to be put in the stocks, or knocked upside the head (which is probably what would have occurred had it been Arthur), and instead the three of them had quite a nice time together, until Merlin had to return to Gaius, and the two women to practice their footwork.

It speaks a lot to Morgana’s relationships in the castle that her circle of friends now included, in total, one maidservant, one manservant, and one prince who was frequently ducking in and out of the circle, depending on how high he currently was in Morgana’s favour. There were no other ladies in the castle, and Morgana had no surviving relations with whom she could either visit or keep correspondence with. Her duties in the castle were to oversee the household, and therefore most of the servants were wary of her and careful to never step out of their place. Merlin and Gwen were marvels in this respect — Merlin because he truly could not imagine being able to _not_ talk back to Arthur, and Gwen only because of the longevity of her role, and Morgana being the first to break rank between them.

This is all to paint Morgana as what she was: she was desperately lonely. She did not believe Uther cared for her beyond his sense of duty, especially so given how often she clashed against him, and how outspoken she was. She had the sense of being suffocated, and isolated, and fundamentally different from those around her, though she could not have said why she believed this. The people of Camelot loved her, but it was the same kind of removed love they bestowed on Arthur. She considered Gwen her one true friend and ally, and so it was understandable that, when there came a time at which it seemed Gwen would be taken from her, Morgana went absolutely wild.

There was a plague in Camelot, and a nasty one, though the blow it struck to Morgana’s heart was more personal: Gwen’s father had spontaneously recovered from the disease, and now Gwen herself was accused not only of witchcraft, but starting the plague in the first place.

“Why would she kneel on a cold stone floor, morning after morning, when she could make things happen with a snap of her fingers?” begged Morgana, feeling herself close to tears. She felt her resolve harden, and spat her words where she knew they would hurt; “Like an idle king.”

“You have no right!” snapped Uther, turning on her. Morgana did not recoil.

“But you have a right to cast judgement on that girl? She’s my best friend!”

“Morgana’s right, Father,” said Arthur, and though he was more measured than Morgana, the sheer relief that filled her upon hearing him side with her was incredible. “You hear the word magic and you no longer listen.”

“You saw it for yourself, she used enchantments.”

“To save her dying father, maybe,” said Arthur, throwing up his hands. “That does not make her guilty of creating a plague. One’s the act of kindness, of love; the other of evil. I don’t believe evil is in this girl’s heart.”

Uther would not hear of it, he was so convinced, and Morgana did not think she had ever been so furious in her life. Her fear manifested quickly into determination: it was unthinkable that Gwen could be taken from her, and it was unthinkable that Morgana could not prevent it. She would fix it. She went to the dungeons, where Gwen was being kept, like an animal, and her hatred for Uther’s tyranny grew tenfold.

“Leave us,” she snapped to the guard, who currently represented everything her king stood for, and could therefore suffer a little rudeness. He hesitated — orders were orders, but still. Nobody wanted to be responsible for putting the king’s ward in a strop.

“She’s to be guarded at all times, my lady. It’s for your own safety.”

“Don’t you think if she was really a sorcerer she couldn’t do away with you? I will be perfectly safe with or without your presence. Now go, I wish to speak to her.”

She waited until he had left, and then rushed to the bars, grasping Gwen’s hands through them, as Gwen had rushed to meet her.

“Are you alright?” she asked, urgently, gripping Gwen’s hands so tightly that the skin turned pale. Gwen’s eyes were wide and frightened, and there were tear tracks on her cheeks.

“Yes,” she said, and Morgana felt something enormous well up in her at Gwen’s attempt at a brave face. Their hands began to shake. “Yes, yes, I’m—I’m fine, really.”

Morgana looked her in the eyes. Her voice did not waver. “I will not let them do this to you, Gwen. I promise you. I will not let them.”

“Morgana—” said Gwen, and her voice broke. She disentangled one hand, and reached it, hesitantly, through the bars to lay it softly on Morgana’s cheek. Morgana’s eyes fell closed. “You must not—you mustn’t blame yourself if you cannot. I couldn’t bear to see you cry over me."

Morgana took the hand from her face, and kissed Gwen’s palm.

“I will save you,” she said, and did not make Gwen answer her. She took her leave, and then she went straight to Gaius’s chambers, and then to Arthur’s, and together they formed a plan. Perhaps it was Morgana’s infallible will, or chance, or even (possibly) destiny, but so it happened that her and Arthur and Merlin descended into the city’s waterways, to fight a beast conjured by magic with little more than a few torches on their side, or so Morgana had thought.

The afanc was destroyed, and Gwen pardoned. It was Morgana, Merlin and her father who went to her on her release, and Morgana whom she embraced after her father.

“Thank you,” Gwen said, breathlessly, her eyes shining. As much as Morgana should have liked to take the credit for it, however, she could not.

“Don’t thank me, it was more Merlin,” she said, their hands clasped together once more, this time with no bars to separate them. She squeezed Gwen’s palms, then released them. “He’s the real hero here.”

They said their goodbyes, with Tom thanking them both profusely, and Gwen eager to return home. Morgana farewelled her with another hug, feeling a relief so profound she wondered if it were possible for her to ever be unhappy again, when she would have this forevermore in her memory.

“Merlin,” said Morgana, before he could turn away and leave. She watched the smile come into his face, polite but instinctive, as though it was in his very nature to smile when addressed. How anyone could think him malicious was beyond her, and her heart warmed for him, and decided her next action, which she had deliberated over since the caves. “I want you to know that your secret is safe with me.”

He tried to deny it, which she expected, and dutifully brushed aside. “Don’t pretend, Merlin. Wind like that doesn’t just _appear_ in an underground tunnel; I heard you.”

“You did?”

Morgana nodded. “I understand why you have to keep it to yourself—”

“Well obviously—”

“—but I won’t tell anyone.”

Morgana smiled at him, to convince him it was alright, and he returned it, a bit shakily. “You don’t mind me talking to you about it?”

“No,” said Merlin, and it was as if everything all drained out of him at once. With a rush of protectiveness, Morgana realised that the cheer and good humour she had seen before now was Merlin _restraining_ himself (impossible as that sounded), and now she was witnessing it in full, and it was even lovelier. “No, it— you have no idea how hard it’s been, to keep this hidden!”

Morgana ducked her head, smiling; his joy was infectious, and no doubt helped along by the fact that they’d just prevented Gwen’s execution, and Morgana couldn’t have frowned if her life depended on it.

“Well, I thought you showed great courage,” she told him, in earnest. “And I thank you. Your actions saved Gwen’s life; I’m forever indebted to you, Merlin.”

He blushed under the compliment. “Oh, really, it was nothing.”

Morgana shook her head. “It wasn’t. But Merlin — Uther’s hate blinds him from seeing magic for what it is, as a tool. I can bear no ill will towards a tool. So though I will protect your secret, I will do so only so long as you continue to wield it for good. You understand?”

He nodded, and she saw that she had suitably impressed upon him that she was serious. She did not try for a harder warning; she was well aware that by discovering his skills she had placed him, for all intents and purposes, at her mercy. Her word would be taken as law in Uther’s eyes, and she could convict him whensoever she chose, if she wanted.

Of course, Morgana had no desire whatsoever to do such a thing. Aside from her debt to him, she had already come to view Merlin as a friend, and to trust him, so when Merlin promised her that he used magic only for Arthur (and maybe to cheat at a few chores, and chess, and, okay, other various small things), she smiled at him to let him know that it was alright, and together they walked back up from the dungeons to Morgana’s chambers. The air between them was light, and giddy, and around them the golden threads of destiny braided themselves anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, banging pots and pans: merlin and morgana should have been magic buddies! merlin and morgana should have been magic buddies!


	4. Knights in Armour That Could Probably Use a Polish, Actually.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur is not so bad, maybe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im fully aware of the rule that you shouldn’t change point of view without a nice little break. i simply don’t care!

Before she had realised it wasn’t an option for her, Morgana had wanted to be a knight. She admired them for their strength, and bravery, but more than this; she valued their dedication to acting in a way that was righteous. This had placed her at odds with Uther’s knights, for she could not see the slaughtering of innocents as an act of justice, nor believe in those who carried these acts out. But she still desired to uphold those values that had once made such an impression on her, and to protect the people whom it was within her power to protect. Since she had found out about his magic, this included Merlin.

Merlin, coincidentally, was about to be dead, and was therefore not speaking very highly of Morgana’s ability to protect people. It was the second time he had saved Arthur’s life (by willingly drinking from a known to be poisoned goblet, this time), and that made it three total when it came to people Morgana cared about.

She had dismissed Gwen almost instantly to be with Merlin, and then come straight to Arthur’s chambers. She knew the type of man Uther was, and she knew he would not permit or understand Arthur’s desire to go in search of the antidote. Arthur might decide to go anyway, but she didn’t think it could hurt to give him a nudge in that direction.

“You think I should go,” Arthur said, like he hadn’t already gotten dressed in his mail. Morgana shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter what I think. What do _you_ want to do, Arthur?”

He threw out a defence, which she suspected was of Uther’s making: “If I don’t make it back, who’ll be the next king of Camelot? There’s more than just my life at stake.”

“And what kind of king would Camelot want?” tested Morgana, and drew his sword from where he had cast it on the table. “One who would risk his life to save that of a lowly servant, or one who does what his father tells him to?”

She held the sword out to Arthur, watching as he contemplated this. He reached for the sword; Morgana pulled it back.

“Good choice. I’m coming with you.”

Arthur’s indignation flared back up. “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s dangerous.”

“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t go alone.”

“My father will have my head—”

“He’s going to have it either way,” snapped Morgana. “Merlin’s my friend, too, and contrary to what you might think I’m not all that keen to send you into certain death with only yourself for company.”

“ _Mor-_ gana,” said Arthur, and snatched the blade from her by the hilt. “I can’t very well _save_ Merlin if I’m too busy looking after _you_.”

She scoffed. “You can’t very well save Merlin if you’re wasting time arguing with me.”

“You’re serious? You want to come with me?”

Morgana lifted her jaw. “I’m not just going to sit around and let him die, Arthur. I owe him a debt.”

He stared at her. “What sort of debt could _you_ possibly owe _Merlin?_ ”

“That’s none of your business,” she said curtly, and then: “Look, if you say I can’t come then I’m just going to follow you anyway, and then you’ll be too worried trying to keep track of me while I’m thirty feet behind you. Don’t think I won’t.”

Arthur looked at her. He opened his mouth. Scrunched it closed again. He balled his hand into a fist out of frustration, as Morgana watched this display with a growing sense of satisfaction. “Well—fine!”

“Fine!” bit Morgana in return, and together (though they maintained a few feet between them, to let the anger simmer) they strode down to the armoury, footsteps echoing on the stone stairs. In a glorious moment of fore-planning, Morgana had already dressed herself in the gear she used to train with Gwen, and now all she had to do was pinch Sir Leon’s favourite sword to use on their journey. Arthur, in what she could only assume was an act of some petty one-upmanship, took two. And so they set off.

The ride was not a bitter one, nor even one of particular threat. Once Arthur had gotten out of his own head a bit, he could even admit to himself that he didn’t mind having her there. Morgana was irritating, but of a different sort to Merlin. She didn’t blather on about every little thing that came into her head, and on top of that the things that _did_ come into her head were not nearly as stupid as those that occupied Merlin’s, and so the ride was carried out in relative peace and quiet.

Being that Merlin was the entire reason for this trip in the first place, Arthur didn’t think it was too extraordinary to be thinking about him as much as he was. After all, the key to a successful quest was to keep the end goal in mind, and in this case that was to acquire the flower, secure Merlin’s survival, and in a broader sense ensure that Merlin could keep bothering him for a while yet. Obviously Arthur was contemplating him; if anything it proved that Arthur was a top-tier knight, to be so focused on his quest.

“I can hear you thinking from back here,” said Morgana, in that frustrating way of hers. It said she knew something he didn’t, and also that she was casting judgement on him. This time her tone also carried a note of good spirits, and unfortunately for him, Arthur knew that Morgana’s usual good spirits arose from making fun of him, so this is what he expected from her. But she surprised him, as did her new tone: “It’s going to be alright, Arthur.”

He did not turn to look at her. She sounded rather too sisterly for him to be able to respond to her properly; to open himself up to comfort would have been to submit himself to experiencing a whole other variety of emotions which, so far, he had been repressing quite successfully, thanks very much.

On the whole, Arthur was much less self-aware than Morgana, and so for this next we will detail a few facts about Arthur that he was not all that conscious of himself. For instance, he often forgot that Morgana had also grown up under Uther’s care. Oh, she had had the first ten years of her life away from him, but Uther’s reign, his influence, had affected her then too. He saw his plight as a lonely one: the burden of carrying on his father’s legacy, and of disappointing him. There was the turmoil of knowing and believing what it was to be right, and of these conflicting with one another. As we have already said; Arthur was a good, kind boy. But his morals were juxtaposed with one central belief, instilled in him (and in most) from birth: that his father was the epitome of goodness, and of kindness. And how good could Arthur really believe himself to be, when he so frequently felt himself going against his father? How easily can one judge one’s own good when their ultimate measure of it is a tyrant?

“Of course it is,” said Arthur, in his usual way, where he pretended everything was fine, even to himself. His situation was, if we can be allowed to say it, much like the one Morgana had recently found herself in with Gwen. But unlike Morgana’s steely eyed determinism, which had arisen out of fear, there was no doubt in Arthur’s mind that he would succeed (he was helped along in this respect by a healthy dose of not-entirely-unwarranted arrogance). If there _was_ any doubt, it was restricted neatly to a very small part of him entirely beneath his general observation — his pinkie toe, perhaps.

They did not make camp; they had left late in the evening and then carried on for several hours, and Arthur knew that to lay down now, for only an hour or two at most, would allow grogginess and sluggish reactions to seep their way into them. He felt a bit bad about it for Morgana, but it was her own fault for pestering him into coming, really, and she didn’t seem too badly off so far. They had started a game of I-spy (it was still around, even then), and Morgana was relishing in it:

“I spy an ass,” she said, immediately, which was rather uncalled for since Arthur had yet to even open his mouth. He twisted around on his horse.

“ _Morgana_ ,” he said, and she grinned back at him. “At this rate I don’t even know why I’m bothering to rescue Merlin, clearly I can find his insolence elsewhere.”

“But I’m not as pretty as Merlin,” she said, which shut him up quick. She brought her horse to a trot beside his while he gathered his thoughts, which were not so much scattered about as they were non-existent. He was suddenly not so sure that he’d ever had a thought in his life, or that he was able to; he certainly didn’t seem to be able to muster up any when it came to Merlin, or his so called prettiness. Arthur decided to ignore her.

“Go on, then,” he said eventually, once he was feeling amiable to her again. “What’s this debt you owe him?”

“Dying to know, are you?”

“A bit, yes.”

Morgana looked out over the terrain. They had reached an opening; before them the pale morning light stretched out over the road they would have to take, and it’s descent into the forest, within which lay who knows what. Morgana, you must remember, had not been privy to Gaius’ charming exposition about all the horrors lying between them and the Mortius flower, but this might have been a good thing, else otherwise she could have been persuaded to let Arthur handle this alone, and would not have come. Or perhaps she still would have; it was a rather large debt, after all.

“He saved Gwen.”

“Merlin? When?”

“Really, Arthur, I didn’t know you were this thick. With the afanc, of course.”

“Uh, I think you’ll find that was me.”

Morgana laughed, in a healthy (but confusing) mix of both genuine amusement and scorn; she struggled, sometimes, to identify when Arthur was serious, and when he was indulging in humour. Probably there was a combination of both in the statement. Arthur himself was rather pleased at the reaction, because though he wouldn’t have admitted it, he liked to be liked.

“And who discovered it in the first place?”

“Well, that was probably more Gaius—”

“You should give him more credit,” interrupted Morgana. “Besides, I could equally ask you why you’re here.”

“Same as you, apparently. He saved my life.”

“And so you’re prepared to risk yours in return?”

Arthur huffed. “You sound like Father.”

“Gave you a lecture, did he?”

Arthur pursed his lips, and nodded. She watched him stew, and wondered how far to push. If she were in possession of kinder words, like Gwen, perhaps she could draw him out, but Uther had taught them both too well. She had failed Arthur in that regard; she loved him, yes, but she did not know how to adequately express that to him except in the manner of his father (which was, in short, through the occasional suggestion that one did not think him half-bad, and through lots of shoulder clapping), and he equally did not know how to receive it if it was not done in such a way. Any attempt at otherwise would cause him to clam up, so Morgana elected to stay silent, which was itself a different kind of offering.

Eventually Arthur said: “He doesn’t expect me to succeed. That’s why he wouldn’t allow me to go. He believes I will fail.”

“He’s wrong.”

“Is he? My whole life I’ve been nothing but a disappointment to him.”  
  
“That’s not true.”

“Yes, well,” said Arthur, slightly bitterly, “you wouldn’t understand, anyway. He’s always liked you best.”

“You’re his son!”

“Exactly.”

Morgana brought her horse to a halt. “Is that really why you don’t like me? You’re jealous?”

“Could we not talk about this?” snapped Arthur. “Really, let’s not. We should focus on finding the flower and getting back to Camelot before it’s too late.”

 _Cheery_ , thought Morgana, but allowed the subject to drop. It was a difficult sort of thing to argue, anyway, especially when one feels it on some level to be true. So they carried on, and the air between them was tense with hostility and embarrassment. They rode on another three hours, finally stopping to ask after a young woman in their path. She had been beaten, badly, by her master; Morgana tended to her as best she could, bestowing upon her her cloak, and then her and Arthur were forced to put aside their difficulties to fend off a wyvern.

It was a ghastly looking thing, with a ferocious snarl and also rather larger than anything Morgana had faced off before, though admittedly most things would have been, since she had only ever faced off Gwen, and an eleven year old Arthur — she had never had to contend with a beast. But the two of them defeated it with a fair amount of surprising compatibility in their fighting styles, and when it was done Arthur even clasped her arm like he would’ve a knight.

“Well done,” he said.

“Maybe I should come on all your journeys,” jested Morgana, and Arthur shook his head, in plausibly deniable fondness. There was an argument before entering the cave that it is not necessary to detail here, and throughout it the woman watched them keenly, slightly surprised. The gist was that Morgana said some rude things, and Arthur some rude things back, and it ended with Morgana staying outside to look after the horses, even though this might seem like a cop-out.

So she sat, by a fire of her own making, and traced symbols in the dirt with a stray stick. They were marks half-remembered, half-dreamed, though she did not realise them as such. She saw them only as haphazard, random collections of shapes and lines, until they began to spark.

For a moment Morgana stared at them, frowning, as her mind tried to make sense of it. Embers from the fire, perhaps, blown into their path. But no, they followed the designs to the letter. A prickling feeling rose at the back of her neck, in primitive understanding. The symbols burned hot for a moment, then faded. When Morgana looked up, the woman was back.

The woman, of course, was Nimueh. She was a powerful sorcerer, and had in her youth made the mistake of assisting Camelot’s king — a path which had now brought her to one of revenge. She had not killed Arthur, being as she was somewhat familiar with destiny and fate, and the Mordred business, and she also would not kill Morgana either. Morgana of course was not to know this.

“Where’s Arthur?” she demanded, rising and drawing her sword, for Nimueh no longer resembled the distressed damsel they had come across. For one thing she had drawn her hood, and as we all know this makes anyone look at least a few degrees more suspicious.

“Curious,” said Nimueh, ignoring that she had spoken. She reached out for Morgana, trailing hot fingers across her cheek; Morgana flinched away from the touch. “Your destiny unravels and rebinds itself countless times, my lady. But you need not fear — in none do you die by my hand.”

“And yet you may die by mine,” said Morgana, purely because it was rather a good line, and not because she had a desire to kill anyone (not yet, anyway). Nimueh laughed, and pushed the sword from where it threatened her chin.

“A healer’s hands do not bring death,” she said. “Your presence here bodes well for Arthur; you’ll forgive me for not allowing it. _Hic alliges duplicia!_ ”

Morgana’s hands and feet were bound, her sword flung far from her reach. She fell to the ground. “Why are you doing this?” she spat.

But Nimueh was not the sort to launch into dramatic spiel, or give away her plans. She left Morgana alone and in the cold, with night setting in around her, and to rather undignify herself as she crawled towards her weapon. It was very difficult. She had to manoeuvre as a caterpillar does, dragging herself across the wet leaves, and worse still was this: Arthur returned before she had got within a foot of her sword, which was both belittling for Morgana and bad for Arthur’s ego, or so it would have been were he not feeling a bit humbled by his recent near-death experience. Morgana herself was rather surprised he’d got out of a sorcerer encounter unscathed, especially when there was no Merlin to fiddle with things in the background.

“How’d you manage it?” asked Morgana, after Arthur had cut her bounds and paused for breath in his explosive outrage that someone had harmed her. He calmed down a little.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, one hand on the pouch in which he had placed the flower, which Morgana thought was a bit sweet. “All I know is I had help.”

He frowned down at the ground, making marks in the dirt with his sword. “Someone knew I was in trouble, and sent a light to guide me.”

Morgana had an idea, of course, but she kept her promises and so kept Merlin’s secret, only going so far as to prompt him; “Magic?”

“I think so,” said Arthur, thoughtfully, and then was quiet the entire journey home, and would not say anything else regarding his thoughts on the matter. But he had got the flower, so it was worth something, at least.

She featured heavily in Uther’s rage upon their return, but it was of the “how could you endanger Morgana like that” variety, with some additional “how could you encourage him like that” thrown in for good measure. Morgana also got sent to a hot bath while Arthur went to the dungeons, so really perhaps what Arthur had said on their ride was true. 

It was not until late in the evening that she was free to go and see Merlin. He was wrapped up in a blanket when she arrived, still shivering, but he lit up when he saw her, dimples appearing in full force. She touched his shoulder.

“Still with us, I see,” she greeted, warmly. Merlin grinned.

“Thanks to you.”  
  
“It pains me to admit it, but it was more Arthur, really. And even then it seems like he didn’t do it entirely alone.”

Merlin schooled his face into one of innocence. It was not very convincing —Morgana made a note to help him get better at it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she replied, lightly. “But I’ll say thank you for him anyway.”

She paused a moment, and then: “Merlin— you don’t know anything about destiny, do you? What with your, you know, gift?”

Merlin spluttered. “Um. Destiny? No? What—why would I know about destiny? And why would you—want to know?”

Morgana shook her head, frowning in thought. “Something that woman at the cave said.”

“What woman?”

“The sorcerer… she said I had healer’s hands.”

“Maybe you should come and work for Gaius,” said Merlin, with a cheeky grin. Morgana rolled her eyes.

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to joke. I’m sure the castle would have been a mightier miserable place without you.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Merlin. “And then who would’ve folded Arthur’s socks?”

She patted his shoulder. “Get some rest, Merlin. Arthur’s hardly going to let you off just because you almost died.”

She left with his laughter in her ears, practically running into Arthur at the end of the corridor.

“Off to see Merlin?” she asked, and Arthur cleared his throat.

“Well, you know. Got to check he’s up to performing his duties tomorrow.”

Morgana laughed. “Naturally. Listen, Arthur, about Uther—”

“It’s fine,” he said, and then: “Morgana, really. It’s fine.”

It was not fine, in Morgana’s books, but she could see now was not the time to trouble him.

“You did a good thing,” she said simply, and did something she had never done before: she kissed him on the cheek.

“Yes, well,” said Arthur, turning a bit red. “Don’t make a fuss.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

She returned to her chambers, where Gwen was waiting for her. She hummed as she brushed Morgana’s hair, and there was a new bunch of flowers on the vanity, freshly picked.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” teased Morgana, and Gwen smiled at her in the mirror.

“Well, there’s good cause for it,” she said. “Merlin’s well, and it’s all thanks to Arthur and you. You’re quite the knight in shining armour.”

Morgana blushed. “You’re too sweet, Gwen.”

Gwen placed both hands on Morgana’s shoulders, leaning down a little to rest her cheek against Morgana’s hair. She glowed warmly in the candle light, or maybe that was just her.

“Well, you are to me,” Gwen said, and pressed a chaste kiss to Morgana’s temple (there was a lot of friendly kissing between them going on — really it was embarrassing they hadn’t worked their feelings out sooner). “My knight.”

Morgana glanced down at her hands. “You know, a knight isn’t truly a proper one till he has the favour of a lady,” she said, sounding astonishingly casual even to herself. Gwen looked at her a moment.

“I’ll embroider you a handkerchief,” she teased, smiling, and then patted Morgana’s shoulders twice before stepping away.

“I’d like that.” Morgana moved to sit on the bed while Gwen extinguished the candles about the room. “What with all these adventures we’re getting into.”

“Exactly,” said Gwen, and then hovered by the door. “Was there anything else, my lady?”

“No, thank you. Good night, Gwen.”

“Good night, my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rewatched this episode like six times for this and im still obsessed by how whiny arthurs “why not” is when he’s talking to uther. bradley james ur acting choices are incredible
> 
> also, please consider dropping me a line if you're enjoying this fic! it's always nice to hear people's thoughts <3


	5. An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merlin and Gwen do nothing but gossip and swoon for a whole chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the quote is from the hobbit, because i was too lazy to think of my own way to say it <3

It was once said that “things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to; while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome, may make a good talk, and take a deal of telling anyway.” This is quite true, and the budding friendship of Merlin and Gwen was certainly nothing to write home about, for it contained no great stakes and would not have been particularly interesting to anyone but the two of them. We shall, however, talk briefly of them for this interlude, but rest assured that if their trivial follies are beyond you that you may skip ahead without missing a great deal, except of course the arrival of Sir Lancelot.

He was not Sir Lancelot yet, merely Lancelot, and despite what Arthur would claim later, in our eyes he did indeed both look and speak (and fight) like a knight. Merlin and Gwen were both quite taken with him, but of course he hasn’t arrived yet, and before he does we must detail a variety of inconsequential activities the two had gotten up to, so that you might better bear witness to their friendship.

As we are all aware both Merlin and Gwen were servants in the royal household, and this afforded them the pleasure of being frequently in one another’s company, as they were regularly either passing each other in the halls or assigned to the same jobs. Gwen’s chores kept her usually within the ladies’ sphere, where she cleaned chambers and helped the laundress, and of course Merlin was usually at Arthur’s beck and call, but despite this their jobs coincided often enough. They were currently both assigned in the kitchen to complete the washing up, which was a phenomenal task since lunch had just passed, and they were the only two on duty.

“But if it came down to it,” Merlin was saying, as he scrubbed at a bit of congealed gravy, “who do you really think would win?”

Gwen looked down at her hands, laughing. “You’re asking me to choose between my mistress and my prince, Merlin.”

“Yeah, so? My money’s on Morgana.”

“We’re betting now?” asked Gwen, with an eyebrow raise, and Merlin shot her a cheeky grin.

“Isn’t it more fun? Come on, Gwen. I’ll tackle the soup pot if you’ll just tell me.”

This was quite the incentive; the soup pot was cast iron, weighed a ton, and it always had remnants burnt to the bottom. Gwen bit her lip.

“I can’t,” she said, and Merlin groaned (but it was good-natured, as we hardly need to specify). “Sorry! That’s just so unfair, you can barely lift it.”

Merlin pulled a face at this offense, and flicked a soapy hand at her. Gwen shrieked.

“No, I didn’t— that’s not what I meant, obviously! I’m not saying _I_ could lift it! It’s just heavy!”

“I dunno, Gwen, you’ve wounded my honour. Better make it up to me by answering the question, I think.”

Gwen hesitated, slightly put out by the trickery. Then she stepped closer to Merlin, so they were shoulder to shoulder, and squeaked: “Arthur!”

Merlin dropped his plate, and it clanged loudly on the floor. He frowned down at it, because now he’d have to wash it all over again, lest some poor nobleman have his pork seasoned with dirt.

“ _Arthur?_ ” he said, aghast. “No _way_ could Arthur beat Morgana, she’s incredible.”

“But Arthur’s had more practice, and Morgana’s only ever properly fought me, and I’m certainly no match for him, not in a million years.”

Merlin pondered this. “Okay, well, obviously now we have to get them to fight so we can find out.”

Gwen swatted his arm. “You’ve too many ideas, Merlin.”

“What! Let’s get Morgana down to the training ground, I’d love to see her knock him down in front of the knights.”

She shook her head, but she was laughing. “The way you talk…”

“What?”

“Well, I just wish I was brave enough to publicly denounce the prince. But then I quite like my head attached to my shoulders, so maybe not.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a good head. What’s mine worth, other than as target practice for Arthur?”

“He likes you, really.”

“Yeah, alright,” agreed Merlin. “Rescuing me from poisoning was pretty telling, I guess.”

“Exactly,” grinned Gwen, and then turned to the rest of the washing up. Only a wine jug and the soup pot remained. “Now, then, I think I’ll take this one.”

She picked up the wine jug, feeling rather like she was getting away with something. Merlin was good for her in this respect, because he helped her act a little more silly. She held it in front of her face to protect herself from his reaction, which was to groan theatrically.

“That’s not fair, I’ve been mucking out the stables this morning, my arms are already practically dead. What did you have to do, change Morgana’s sheets?”

“This was your deal, Merlin,” reminded Gwen, and tapped him on the nose. He beamed down at her. “Now get scrubbing!”

Of course Gwen did help him a bit, especially with the whole getting it in and out of the water business, because despite what she said she did worry that his skinny arms would snap under the weight. Then they got into what we would call a dare contest, because Cook had just finished a new batch of tarts for tonight’s desert, and the smell was so heavenly that Gwen said she’d never smelt anything better, and Merlin said: “Let’s nick some.”

Which was how they got into a very heated game of chicken, because Merlin only took one tart, and then had the audacity to eat it in front of her. Gwen had never stolen anything from the kitchens in her life, and now suddenly Merlin was promising to distract Cook so she could filch a pastry. He was so earnest that before she knew it he was in the very business of chatting Cook up (Cook had not yet started her dislike or suspicion of him, because Merlin hadn’t quite got confident enough to start taking things in plain sight, which he’d do later, much to her enduring frustration) and Gwen was hovering by the tray they rested on, fingers mere inches from the prize. The kitchen door clanged, and in fright Gwen reached out, grabbed one, and then immediately hurried back to the wash-up station.

“What do I do with it,” she hissed, when Merlin got back.

“You eat it, Gwen!”

And so they became quite the mischievous pair, and there was another memorable occasion in which Gwen was asked to see to Arthur’s bedsheets, and Merlin was also in there cleaning the floors, and it devolved into a game of which the rules were so complicated that it would be pointless to replicate them here. The point was that they both laughed so hard their stomachs hurt, and for many weeks after they could induce the same result by saying the words “boot polish” to one another.

Needless to say they’d gotten quite chummy, and so by the time Merlin was saved from a griffin by a very handsome stranger, and had given the handsome stranger his bed, and pledged to help the handsome stranger fulfil his dream of becoming a knight, it was Gwen who got dragged into helping. She was not so immediately in love with him as Merlin, because of course there was Morgana to think about, but she liked him very much.

“Don’t thank me,” she said, as she was measuring the handsome stranger (whose name, as you well know, was Lancelot) for a knight’s outfit. “Thank Merlin. Merlin would do anything for anyone, wouldn’t you Merlin?”

Merlin waved her off, not realising that Gwen was attempting to hone her wing-woman skills. Lancelot, on the other hand, was very taken with her, and did such chivalrous things as call her _my lady_ and kiss her hand, which set Gwen all aflutter. Her and Merlin had a lot of fun in watching him train with the knights, and _oohed_ and _aahed_ in the appropriate moments, and clapped louder than anyone.

“He’s quite dreamy, isn’t he?” said Gwen to Merlin, after Lancelot had put on a brilliant display of swordsmanship.

“Yeah,” said Merlin, a bit breathlessly.

Lancelot was knighted and given a celebration in his honour, and during this both Merlin and Gwen spent the whole time gossiping, and also swooning a fair bit. After all, he looked very nice in his mail, especially surrounded by candlelight, and his nobility (forged in name only) seemed to practically glow off him. They had sat down at a table, not with the _intent_ of watching him, but which just coincidentally had a rather nice view of him and Arthur, and now they both sat with their chins in their hands and hearts in their eyes, and gushed over him.

“So, come on,” said Merlin, starting on his third drink, “just for the sake of argument, if you had to: Arthur or Lancelot.”

“But I don’t have to and I never will,” she sing-songed, in answer, and Merlin shook his head.

“Oh, you are no fun, Gwen. Go on, if you _had_ to.”

She shook her head. Then she felt slightly bad at denying him this when they were supposed to be having a good time, and said:

“Well, who would you choose?”

Merlin squinted at them, clearly weighing up their merits. Then he said, quite decisively, but also quite red in the face, that it certainly wouldn’t be Arthur, and that was for certain.

Gwen choked a little on her wine. “What, really?”

“Yeah. Why?” He twisted to look at her. “That can’t be a surprise, he’s a prat!”

“Well, yes, but…” Gwen felt her face heat up. “Well, I mean — you can’t deny he’s a good-looking one.”

Merlin beamed. “Gwen!”

She flushed, and covered her face. “Stop it, I didn’t mean — well, I did, but I’m not saying, you know—”

Merlin laughed, and then Gwen did too. Both of them looked into their glasses, feeling slightly sheepish, but also like their relationship was moving in a somewhat unanticipated (but not unwelcome) direction, and one they were eager to foster.

“Alright,” said Merlin, not looking at her. “So if it’s not Arthur, and it’s not Lancelot, who would you choose? Like, from people here, I mean.”

“I don’t want to say,” said Gwen, and the wine was probably affecting her a little too much, just to have her admit that.

“That’s okay,” said Merlin, because he was a sweetheart. “Sorry, you didn’t have to answer. Your tastes can remain a mystery to me.”

Maybe it was because he said this, or maybe it was the wine, or the fact that she had just caught sight of Morgana eating a cherry, but Gwen said:

“Morgana’s very pretty, isn’t she?”

Merlin followed her eyeline. “…Yes?”

She nodded, and then watched Merlin’s lips curl into a smile as it dawned on him what she was trying to say.

“So asking you to choose between Arthur and Lancelot was a bit misguided, then?” he said, lightly, and Gwen ducked her head.

“Just a bit. Not that I don’t, you know, they’re very—” she gestured at them in a way that was meant to encapsulate their general beings, “and it’s not like I _wouldn’t_ , but if it came down to it, well. They’re not Morgana.”

“They are certainly not,” said Merlin, and held up his tankard in a toast. Gwen clinked her cup with his, still rather red, and downed the rest of it. “Neither of them could pull off that dress, for one thing.”

At this Gwen choked for the second time that night, and Merlin had to thump her on the back quite vigorously, and then Morgana had to come over and check she was alright, and Merlin was holding back giggles the entire time, and it was mightily embarrassing for both of them. Gwen was also the one who walked him back to Gaius’ with Lancelot, Merlin’s arms over both their shoulders, as he engaged in a rather rousing rendition of a song none of them had ever heard. Morgana had also accompanied them because Gwen was there, and Arthur had come along to laugh at Merlin, and so the five of them made quite the merry party back up to the physician’s quarters. Probably no one had expected the first gathering of these legendary figures to have occurred because the greatest sorcerer in the world couldn’t make his legs work, but as we are coming to learn these things very rarely happen quite the way one expects, so we suppose we’ll forgive them for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, criminally underusing lancelot: i'm making sure i keep in line with the show


	6. Arthur and Gwen’s Lonely Hearts Club Band

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a whole lot of stuff happens behind the scenes.

It would not do to diminish Gwen’s role in the adventures occurring at Camelot. Of course, many (indeed most) of them fell at Merlin and Arthur’s door; Arthur by virtue of being the king’s son, and being the person who was subsequently tasked with handling any threats against the kingdom, and Merlin by virtue of that pesky destiny of his, which had been handed to him by a dragon and which he was still not really all that sold on.

(This was a lie, of course. He was getting to quite like Arthur, though he wouldn’t have said so — no point inflating his head any further).

But even servants will have their own adventures, or at the very least be affected by them, and so we will detail shortly Gwen’s experience when the man named Edwin appeared in town. Lancelot had now been and gone, and so they were due for some more excitement, though this would be of a more unpleasant kind. It started, though no one realised it, with the arrival of the lilies, and here Gwen played her first role in the events, for she was the one who transported them to Morgana’s room.

“No note?” asked Morgana as she looked them over, touching her fingertips lightly to their delicate petals. Gwen shook her head.

“I’m afraid not. Why, who would you have them be from, if you could choose?”

Morgana glanced up at her. Gwen had clued in, by now, that they were doing something like flirting. Or, well, she hadn’t quite got to the fact that Morgana was flirting _back_ , but she understood the fluttering feeling in her stomach and what undercurrent it gave their conversations. As it stood she was managing to turn just about everything they did into flirting, because this feeling accompanied her any and all times she was with Morgana, and it so far had not shown any signs of letting up (but then, it had been doing the same for the last four years at least, and so the feeling probably just did not want to break that streak).

“Secret admirer?” Morgana teased, with a lovely smile. In a feat of bravery Gwen had not known herself capable of, she took a leap of faith.

“I hear secret admirers prefer more practical gifts these days.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. It’s—quite the range.”

Morgana looked at her. She had schooled her face into one of neutrality, but rather poorly; her good humour shone through regardless. “Smaller items, I would expect. Good for everyday use.”

“Exactly, my lady.”

They had then gone about each other in rather the manner of school girls, smiling and giggling at everything, and above all feeling that they were sharing a secret, for both of them knew quite well that Gwen was making good on her promise to embroider Morgana a handkerchief, and they had now added further connotations to this fact.

But if you are familiar with the story then you will know that the lilies bade poorly for both of them, for they contained within them an enchanted beetle, and it was while Morgana was sleeping that night that the insect scuttled over her skin and entered into her head, and there it caused such a ruckus that Gwen, upon being unable to awaken Morgana the next morning, thought for a brief moment that she was dead.

Morgana was not dead, though she soon might be. Nobody could determine what was wrong with her, and it was for two dreadful nights that Gwen stayed awake at her bedside, intermittently picking up her needlework to make clumsy stitches before abandoning it to grasp Morgana’s hand. She did not sleep for over thirty hours, and when she finally did collapse, it was in the chair she had drawn up to Morgana’s bed, and she woke up with a crick in her neck.

Gaius had given her a lecture she had not listened to, and now Merlin had come to have a crack.

“You should get some rest, you look terrible,” he announced, quite without tact. His tone was kind, though, and even if it had not been Gwen would not have spared the energy to be offended; as it was she recognised it as the worry of a friend, and sank into the hand he had put timidly on her shoulder. Her own were clasped around Morgana’s still.

“I cannot leave her,” she said, not looking at him. Merlin squeezed her shoulder, and she felt his concern for her radiating off him, though still she did not budge.

“Gwen… you can’t be expected to look after her like this.”

Gwen sniffed. “Maybe so, but I can at least keep her company.”

He tried to persuade her otherwise, but it did not work. The only time she left Morgana’s side was when it was necessary, and when the king or Arthur came to see her. This occurred more often than she might have expected, especially from the king, but she thought it a testament to him that he offered such care towards his ward. Arthur was always present at these visits, but he came alone, too, several times a day, and often without prior announcement. The third time he disturbed her she had yet to stand from her chair before he indicated it was not necessary.

“Don’t get up, please,” said Arthur, sounding almost as exhausted as she felt. “I’ve troubled you enough today. I just wanted to see how she was faring before I retired.”

“A little better, I think,” answered Gwen, though any improvement she imagined she saw had been conjured out of her own wishes. Arthur studied Morgana’s sleeping form, his jaw working, and then he sat down in the chair beside Gwen’s, leftover from Merlin’s visit.

“It’s Guinevere, isn’t it?”

“That’s correct, sire.”

They sat in silence together for a while, feeling not quite so out of place as either of them had expected to. Arthur and Guinevere were themselves woven throughout destiny, and they had quite the future laid out before them even now. This future was likely not the one expected by most, and certainly not by the dragon, who if we may be allowed to briefly allude to, was in rather a snit at how things were going so far. Gwen and Arthur would be veering sharply away from the whole romance business rather shortly, but in each of their possible destinies they were always closely tied to one another, and so perhaps this is why they felt comfortable with one another now, in sharing their love of Morgana.

“What are you working on?” asked Arthur eventually, gesturing at the half-done handkerchief Gwen had left lying on Morgana’s bed. She blushed, and gathered it up, and then thought it might be rude not to share, and held it out to him, even though she was embarrassed.

“For Morgana,” she answered. “She said all good knights should possess a lady’s favour, and asked for mine.”

Arthur let out a startled laugh. The look it put on his face was so boyish and endearing that Gwen forgot all of her dislike for him, and in fact he rocketed up several steps in her estimation.

“Of course she did,” he said, fondly, and handed the fabric back to her. He looked her over, and frowned in concern. “You should go and get some sleep. I’ll sit with her a while.”

Gwen had been hard-pressed so far to take this advice, but although it didn’t _sound_ like an order, she felt there was really only one way to answer such a request from a prince, and so did as he said. She retired to the room off from Morgana’s, which she had indeed come to think of as her own, but she did not sleep. She knew that Morgana’s time was running out, as much as she tried to pretend it wasn’t, and so she could not have slept soundly even if she wished to. More stitches were added to the hanky. It was not simple work, and she had already pricked her fingers several times on account of her shaking hands, and the drooping of her eyelids, but she persevered. She had somehow gotten it into her head that Morgana would wake once she had finished the gift, and so Gwen continued until her fingers were red and raw, and only stopped when she finally, in the earliest hours of the morning, passed out from sheer exhaustion.

***

Morgana had awoken with little fanfare; indeed, she felt as though she had not passed such a dreamless sleep for many a month. Her head did ache, but aside from that there was no evidence within her to suggest the illness that had waylaid her. Her understanding of its severity came from other sources; the chairs drawn to her bedside, the dark bruises under Gwen’s eyes, and (rather surprisingly) Uther’s relief at seeing her face, and the kiss he pressed to her hair.

“My dear child,” he said, with such feeling that Morgana felt rather overcome. Believing herself to have been beyond desiring his good opinion, the realisation that she was affected by this display of fatherly concern was quite unsettling, and so she tried to put it out of her mind. Arthur was easier to deal with, given that he had the emotional expression capabilities of a broomstick.

“Good to see you’re feeling better,” he said, stiffly, and then lifted his hand. He moved it about in the air for a moment, obviously unsure what he had planned to do with it, and finally settled on patting her head twice before turning tail out of the room. She caught eyes with Gwen, who had been standing patiently in the corner throughout this, and the two burst into laughter.

Gwen’s lasted significantly longer than Morgana’s, and also turned into sniffles, at which point she raised one hand to cover her mouth, trying (and failing) to wave Morgana’s concern away. Morgana reached for her, though this was somewhat difficult given she was still confined to bed, but Gwen came to her anyway.

“Gwen! Gwen, whatever is the matter?”

Gwen took the hand Morgana had outstretched, and with it Morgana pulled her to sit on the bed. She cradled her hand as Gwen had done so to her the two nights prior, turning it over in her own and rubbing her thumb along the lines of Gwen’s palm.

“Gwen, please. Why do you cry?”

“It’s nothing,” said Gwen, and at the very least she was smiling through her tears. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I’m so glad you’re okay.”

She said it so earnestly that Morgana’s ears felt hot, but she laughed a little alongside her.

“Is that all?” she said, in relief. “Dear Gwen, I am perfectly fine, as you can see.”

“I know,” said Gwen, and dried her eyes. She looked Morgana over, as though searching for the evidence herself. “Gaius didn’t think you’d make it.”

“And yet I have,” Morgana reassured her. “I’m quite alright, I promise.”

Guinevere nodded, and then reached into the pocket of her apron. She sniffed once more, to get it all out of the way, and handed over the fabric she had slaved over the last few days, pressing it into Morgana’s hand.

“Here,” she said. “I finished it while you slept.”

It was very beautiful; Merlin had once called Gwen the best seamstress in Camelot, and whilst it was not quite an accurate title, she was certainly good enough that the addition of a bit of friendly-bias made it so. A collection of purple and gold flowers lay in the upper right corner, and then in the same plum shade the letter M adorned the opposite, and the edges were stitched with gold.

Morgana swallowed, and ran her fingers over the embroidery. “It’s beautiful, Gwen. It’s truly—beautiful.”

Guinevere smiled at her. Perhaps this might have seemed like a good time to enact on their feelings, what with the gift and the relief of having Morgana alright, but the past few days had put Gwen quite through the emotional ringer, and if Morgana had kissed her at this moment then she probably would have burst into tears all over again, and that is not what anyone wants for a first kiss. So they embraced instead, and held onto one another much longer than was necessary, and then went back to acting like friends. We should remember that they perceived no pressures on them, and that it can really be quite nice to fall into romance slowly, and not every instance of love needs to be accompanied by great yearning. Morgana and Gwen’s love, to use the old adage, was patient as it was kind, and it would not be harmed by a short delay in getting going.

Such was their experience in this adventure, which really belonged more to Merlin, though it is not necessary to detail his success here — he saved the day and got no credit for it (except from Gaius, who made him his favourite stew), which was something he had begun to get used to by now. Things were starting to stir up, however, and despite the turmoil of this foray into Merlin’s world, for Morgana and Gwen it was still to get worse, and quite a bit more life threatening, for it was six weeks after this that Morgana first dreamt of Avalon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to everyone who has left a comment, thank you!!!! i appreciate them so much, it’s so lovely to hear your thoughts as you read <3


	7. Morgana and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merlin and Morgana have an adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me every time i mention the dragon: [i’ve had enough of this dude ](https://lancelotdeservedbetter.tumblr.com/post/190840642730/its-always-sunny-in-camelot)

Merlin and Morgana’s friendship was an abnormal one. It was not one that had been foretold in any great destiny, although it might have been better for that fact, since there was something rather neat about hearing you were destined to be mortal enemies and deciding to become good mates instead. Nor was it forged out of necessity, or of some outer force pushing them into acquaintance. It was created wholly of their own choosing, which is what made it so bewildering to others.

For one thing they shared a delight in tormenting Arthur (tormenting might be too harsh a word — he gave as good as he got, after all, and he deserved most of what they gave him, anyway. They were helping him outgrow his pig-headedness, and in doing so helping to usher in that great age of Albion the dragon would not shut up about, so they were doing him a favour, really). This had been enough to bridge the initial gap between them, but it could not have sustained as rich a relationship as they had developed. Granted, on Merlin’s end there was the incentive that Morgana was the one person aside from Gaius with whom he could share his magic, but their souls (if you will not begrudge us speaking of such things) were made from the same stuffs, as it were. For Morgana was a good deal more kind and compassionate than any in Camelot, though her brash words often helped some forget it, and Merlin of course was a beloved puppy in servants’ clothing.

So they had hit it off, and become fast friends, and thus when Morgana awoke having had a terrible dream, and received no useful consult from Gaius, she spoke next to Merlin (since she had worked out, quite naturally by now, that it was Merlin to whom Arthur owed a fair amount of his good luck, and that he had rather more experience in the saving-lives area than one would initially guess).

This had put Merlin in a bit of bind, so to speak. For he had also spoken with Gaius, and Gaius had given him the sixth century equivalent of the four-one-one, which was this: Morgana had been suffering from nightmares since she was a small child, and Gaius had been supplying her with sleeping draughts for almost as long, as he feared that these nightmares indicated the gift of the seer, which Uther would quite possibly have Morgana’s head for if he ever found out. Gaius had impressed upon him that it would be better in the long run if Morgana never discovered the truth of her powers, and this had since been echoed by the dragon (although he had exclusively referred to Morgana as “the witch” throughout the conversation, and this had somewhat offended Merlin on her behalf, because he did not think it was said very nicely, and he begrudged the fact).

Merlin loved Gaius, and trusted him, but he was also currently staring into the tear-stained face of his friend, and did not think he could go through with the whole keeping silent thing. He settled eventually on a half measure; he listened to Morgana’s account of her dream, and while he didn’t say anything about magic, he suggested that maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be extra vigilant around this Sophia girl.

“She’s going to kill Gwen, Merlin,” said Morgana, clutching at his arm. Her face was very pale. “I can feel it.”

“We won’t let that happen,” said Merlin, and he meant it with the same blind optimism he applied to everything. He smiled at her, softly and reassuringly. “Seriously, Morgana, we’ll look after her.”

Some explanation is now necessary. Doubtless you were expecting to read that it was Arthur who was in danger, since it so often was, but on this occasion things were going slightly differently than what had been previously planned. Morgana had dreamed at first that she were underwater, in a peaceful place, one of stillness and rest, and all about her the sea shone with golden light. It was, in essence, a good place, and this is why she had been so startled to come across Gwen sinking into its depths, her face an equal mirror of tranquillity, but of the kind of tranquillity that is usually found in death. Above her stood a woman, hand outstretched, and Morgana knew instinctively that she was drowning her.

Here is what had happened next: while Morgana fretted over her dream, Arthur and Merlin had gone hunting, which Merlin had blundered spectacularly, and the two had then happened upon a woman (the aforementioned Sophia) and her father. We will detail their plight, since neither Merlin nor Morgana ever discovered it in full. They were members of the Sidhe (a faerie folk, though do not let them hear you call them such) who had been cast out from Avalon and sentenced to mortality here on Earth, and they now sought return passage by the means of exchanging a soul. This was quite common amongst the fae, and doubtless you will have heard such things as the selection of children to live among them, and other tales of the like. The price of returning to Avalon was a high one, and warranted one type of soul in particular: they wanted someone pure of heart.

But why not Arthur, you cry! As much as we love him, we’ll say that at this point in time he was little more than a boy, and he was tangled up in a lot of webs tugging him in various different directions, and was not always guaranteed to act in a pure of heart manner (indeed, by Merlin’s reckonings, he was very much _not_ pure of heart, because nobody who was really pure of heart could deign such delight from bossing people around, and throwing things at his servant). Besides, Arthur will get quite the number of opportunities to prove himself down along the track, and so Sophia and her father chose Gwen, whose goodness radiated from her like a shining beacon of light.

Morgana had of course shared her concerns with Gwen, who though she received them kindly, did not see how they could possibly come to fruition. She held both Morgana’s hands, and tried to reassure her.

“And what could they want with me?” she asked, searching Morgana’s face. “I’ve done nothing to them, and they seem sympathetic. Mightn’t we offer Sophia the benefit of the doubt?”

“Absolutely not,” said Morgana, her fingers tightening around Gwen’s. “Gwen, _please_. Do not go near her if you can help it. For me.”

“I’m assigned as her servant, my lady—” (To give Sophia credit where it’s due, this had been quite the stroke of genius on her part) “—I could not avoid her even if I wished it.”

“ _Gwen_ ,” pleaded Morgana, but it was useless. Gwen could not be persuaded, and in the following days she grew only more obstinate, and actually began to put her duties towards Sophia _above_ her duties to Morgana, which caused the castle to return to a state it had not seen since Morgana had been in the throes of her girlhood, and she went about in a great temper, and snapped doubly so at everyone.

“She’s enchanted her,” said Morgana, very loudly, as she entered Gaius’ chambers. Merlin looked up from the book he was studying, and saw Morgana stride in with her skirts billowing behind her, cutting quite the imposing figure. “It’s the only explanation for this foolishness.”

“I think you might be right,” said Merlin, apologetically, and snapped the book shut. It had been no help so far, since as it turned out there were rather a lot of ways to ensnare someone into doing your bidding. Magic, apparently, could be a bit of a shady business. “She wouldn’t listen to a word I was saying when I tried to talk to her.”

“You think that’s bad,” cried Morgana, and flung herself into a chair. “She hasn’t bought me flowers all week, _or_ been impressed by the figs I had imported, _or_ the silks, and when she _does_ remember that I’m her most dear and loyal friend of the last eight years the only thing she’ll talk to me about is bloody _Sophia_.”

“And what else?” Morgana went on, having steadily picked up steam. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her grip on the armrests hard as steel. Merlin had begun to feel a bit threatened. “Oh, yes, how could I forget? Her impending death!”

She turned to Merlin, eyes flashing. “We must find out what it is she wants, Merlin.”  
  
Merlin nodded, and so they concocted a plan together. It was rather a basic one, and mostly involved devising a way of spying on Camelot’s guests. This was easier for Merlin, who was used to listening through doors and grates (for safety and honourable reasons such as this one, and also because he sometimes got bored, and liked to know the castle gossip) and less so for Morgana, especially when she was expected to attend events like dinner with the king and Arthur, and had more difficulty bunking off. Which is why Merlin had to do what he did.

(What he did was burst into the great hall without knocking, which was unpardonably rude, especially so because he had run all the way there, and was out of breath).

“Merlin, what the _hell_ are you doing?” said Arthur, while Merlin ignored him completely and said:

“I — sorry, my lord. Forgive me, it’s, um. Urgent?”

He was not looking at Arthur, but the king.

“Whatever is the matter?” said Uther, except less politely than the words implied. Morgana’s grip had gone quite steely around her goblet.

“It’s, uh, you see— well, it’s Guinevere.”

“ _Guinevere?_ ”

“Who?”

“My maidservant,” answered Morgana, stiffly. Her eyes were very wide, and frightened.

“Yeah,” continued Merlin. He was still puffing a bit. “The thing is, Morgana—um, my lady, I mean, the Lady Morgana, she—Gwen’s a bit under the weather, you see, and Gaius said that you—Morgana—should come urgently, so he can make sure you don’t… have it.”

“Have _what?_ For heaven’s sake, boy, you’re unintelligible.”

“It’s just a check-up! I’m sure it’s fine. That you’re fine,” he addressed this bit to Morgana. “But if you don’t come now then everything could go really, _really_ badly.”

“I want to speak to Gaius,” said Uther, but Morgana laid a hand on his arm.

“No,” she said, and tried to smile at him. “No, really, it’s fine. Stay, enjoy your meal. I’m sure whatever’s the matter with Gwen hasn’t infected me, but it would be best to make sure, don’t you agree? It would put my mind at rest.”

“Very well,” said the king, although he frowned. Arthur was not a total idiot, and he saw the way Morgana hurried to Merlin’s side, and then he saw the way Merlin grabbed her hand as the doors were closing, and the way they set off at a run. He was very much not happy about it, but that can wait until later.

Merlin had gone to all this trouble because he’d seen Sophia’s father leaving the castle, and now he and Morgana rushed in pursuit, even though it meant scurrying through the woods in the dark. Lots of good friendships are formed in these circumstances, because it is possible to share in adrenaline and also see each other fall over an embarrassing amount of times, in an astonishing number of ways.

“Can’t you do something about this?” asked Morgana, after she had tripped over her sixth tree root.

“He’ll see if I make a light,” hissed Merlin, which was all very well, but not what Morgana had in mind.

“Couldn’t you enchant me not to stumble?” she said, ever pragmatic. Merlin, bless him, was not all that innovative with his magic, and generally just stuck to making people fly through the air. Morgana’s idea would not have occurred to him.

“I can if you want to waste ten minutes figuring out the right spell,” he said, and Morgana tilted her head as if to say, _that’s fair_. He would think later about the fact that Morgana had been so willing to let him perform magic on her, and that she must really trust him, and get rather welled up, but for now they hurried on with no magical aid. They were rewarded regardless, however, for they found Sophia’s father at the pool of Avalon, and here heard his plan to exchange Gwen’s soul for his daughter’s. Morgana bestowed some very colourful words on him behind his back, and then they returned, dismayed, to the castle, to get what sleep they could. Gwen would simply have to be kept away from Sophia, enchantment be damned, and then perhaps the Sidhe would give up and move their search to some other kingdom. It was with this thought in her mind that Morgana slept.

The morning brought worse news, however. Though Gwen was there to greet her when she woke, her countenance was cold, her manner stiff, and her eyes dull. She acted as but a shell of her former self.

“What are you doing today?” asked Morgana as she dressed, attempting to feign joviality. She had determined to keep Gwen in her company for the entire day, and thus away from Sophia, and she knew that to succeed in this she would have to act as though nothing were amiss, and as though she possessed no suspicions. This resolve went out the window at rather an astonishing speed, due to Gwen’s next words.

“I am eloping with the lady Sophia,” Gwen said, quite calmly. Morgana thought she must have misheard. Gwen repeated herself.

“You can’t be serious,” said Morgana, and grabbed Gwen by the arms, with some vague notion of shaking sense into her. She searched her face. “Gwen, tell me you’re not serious.”

“Perfectly, my lady,” said Gwen, with no innotation whatsoever. “We’re in love.”

“You’re certainly not!” cried Morgana, in outrage. “Gwen, listen to me. You’ve been enchanted, you’re not yourself. If you go with Sophia you will die.”

“We’re in love,” repeated Gwen. Morgana abandoned her hold on Gwen’s arms to cup her face.

“You’re _not!_ Gwen, please, you’re in love with me!”

“That is unfortunate indeed,” said a voice (an annoying, unbearably gloating voice) from the doorway. Morgana looked over Gwen’s shoulder, and saw Sophia standing there, one hand on her staff, her father behind her. To Gwen, Sophia said: “I told you people would try to keep us apart.”

Gwen frowned. “I know.” She stepped out of Morgana’s hold. “They could never take me from you.”

“You can’t _do_ this,” ordered Morgana, in her best king’s-ward-voice. Usually it was very effective; currently, less so. “I saw you down by the lake, I know what you’re planning to do with her!”

“Gwen,” she tried again, and grasped her hand. “Gwen, please believe me. Sophia plans to sacrifice your life for hers, if you go with her you’ll die!”

“I don’t—” said Gwen, half-pulling away. Her eyelids fluttered and she shook her head, looking feverish. “That doesn’t make sense, Morgana, we’re— Morgana—”

“Enough of this,” said Sophia, and flicked her wrist. Gwen’s eyes glowed red, the disquiet draining from her face, and Morgana stepped back in horror. “Guinevere, come with me.”

“You can't!” cried Morgana, and moved forward. Sophia’s father raised the staff, and a blast of powerful magic erupted from it. The force of it hit Morgana in the chest, white-hot, and she was thrown back against the wall, where she fell, silent and immobile, and stayed there for a long time.

It was Merlin who found her, having seen Gwen leaving the castle, and subsequently panicking. He had rushed to Morgana’s chambers, burst in without knocking (it _was_ a habit he was trying to break, but not very hard), and now roused her from the floor in urgency. They had to take once again to the forest, which was unpleasant all around, especially for Morgana, who had not been keeping up with her cardio, but she had adrenaline and fear on her side, and managed quite well. She only tripped over twice.

“Come on,” yelled Merlin, and grabbed her hand. They pushed on, and much like the way a journey seems quicker when one is returning home, the way to the lake seemed simpler and faster in the daylight, and they happened on the pool rather by accident, stumbling into the clearing unexpectedly.

Sophia was already in the water, her arm out, and fear spiked in Morgana’s heart. Merlin had swiped her staff from where she had abandoned it, and he pointed it now in her direction. “ _Evorto oblitero!”_

Sophia burst into sparks, though Morgana could not find it in her to be very sorry about it.

“Get Gwen,” yelled Merlin, turning the staff on Sophia’s father, and she wasted no time in heeding the instruction, tossing off her cloak. Morgana, one might or might not be surprised to know, was a decent swimmer when it came down to it, although where she’d found time to practice her skill is beyond us. Possibly those forest-outings with Gwen had included visits to lakes as well as sword-fighting, but it is really not important to get into this now.

Morgana threw herself into the water, diving into its depths. Like in her dream, the water surrounded her in its misty green glow, and that same sense of calm enveloped her, like a call home. The light sparkled and dazzled where it pierced the surface, reflecting off her limbs, and she pressed down further, until at last Gwen came into view, that hauntingly frozen expression on her face.

Morgana reached for Gwen with her hand, which seemed to glow ethereally before her in the water, and then her gaze moved beyond Gwen, to the darkness. She almost stopped; then she caught sight of Gwen’s face again, told herself to stop being ridiculous, and closed her fingers around Gwen’s arm. The fight to pull her back to the surface was difficult work, and a little less than graceful. Morgana could wield a sword, undeniably, but she was not in possession of huge upper body strength, and Gwen was in several layers of wool. But they broke the surface, Morgana gasping for breath, and Gwen was guided gently to shore in Morgana’s arms. She laid her on the bank, calling for Merlin, who had by now helpfully gotten rid of Sophia’s father with a bit of magical jiggery-pokery, and could come and help.

Gwen was in a bad way: her skin was pale, her complexion sickly, and she did not breathe. Morgana tilted her head to the side, trying to allow the water to escape from her lungs, but she was working off common sense and what little she had seen of Gaius’ practices (and she had never had cause to see a drowning), and this did not do much good. She stroked Gwen’s face several times, as though this could coax her out of it, and murmured things to her, but the result was the same, and she was getting desperate. She held Gwen’s face in her hands.

“Can you heal her?” she asked, as Merlin kneeled beside her. He checked her pulse, and finding it there, nodded.

“With magic,” he confessed, as though Morgana could have objected to anything that would have returned Gwen to her.

“Please,” said Morgana. Merlin looked at her, feeling a bit choked up.

“Move over,” he said, thickly, and placed one hand on Gwen’s shoulder, the other on her stomach. He drew in breath, and closed his eyes, concentrating. It seemed to Morgana that a chill entered the air, and she shivered, either from cold or fear or both. He began to speak, and she tried to imagine what the magic might look like, were it perceivable; threads of gold, perhaps, weaving their way from Merlin’s hands into Gwen, revitalising her. Instinctively, Morgana touched her own hand to Merlin’s shoulder.

His eyes flew open, burning gold, and in the same instant Gwen lurched into life, spluttering and gasping. Merlin fell back onto his backside, and Morgana let out a breathless laugh, almost a sob. Her reunion with Gwen was very sweet, and for a fair time there was nothing but each other’s’ names gasped into the others’ neck while they engaged in a very tight hug, and then Merlin was invited to join, which he did, even though the two girls were both sopping wet. The three of them sat there in their first group-hug, holding hands tight-tight-tight, whilst they caught their breaths and experienced the high of being found alive and well, and mostly unharmed.

Of course, Gwen then wanted to know what had happened, which was quite fair given that she could only remember thinking herself desperately in love with Sophia, and this did not quite line up with her own thoughts about where her heart lay at all. They told her, and though Morgana skirted around the subject of how they had healed her and defeated the Sidhe, Gwen was a bright girl and knew there was something being left out.

Merlin withdrew his hand from hers, and then from Morgana’s as well.

“It was me, Gwen,” he said, looking rather pale. Morgana’s heart ached for him, but she felt strangely afraid, as well, and there was a tightness in her chest, as though she were being placed on display. “I used magic to heal you.”

Either Morgana or Gwen tightened their grip on one another, she didn’t know. Perhaps they both did.

“Oh,” said Gwen. “I—thank you, Merlin. And thank you for telling me.”

Merlin glanced up at her. “You don’t think differently of me?”

“Of course not,” said Gwen, and smiled, though Morgana could tell that she was warring with herself. “Come here.”

She let go of Morgana to wrap him in a hug, and when she pulled away Merlin’s eyes were wet. He huffed a laugh, embarrassed, and Morgana rubbed his shoulder.

“It’s alright, Merlin,” she said. “Cry your fill, Gwen and I both have.”

They laughed again, and then stood to make their way back to the castle. Morgana picked at her soaked clothes. “You couldn’t do something about this, could you, Merlin?”

Merlin held his hand out. “ _Siccum_ ,” he demanded. The hem of Morgana’s dress caught fire.

There was the appropriate frantic screeching, and of tossing Morgana back in the lake, wherein she fell over and got doused head to toe once more, and then there was a good amount of friendly ribbing over the fact that Merlin could defeat two supernatural creatures but not dry out a simple dress.

“I didn’t know the spell,” admitted Merlin, sheepishly. “Sometimes I just visualise what I want and say the first thing that comes to mind.”

“And that’s best practice, is it?” asked Morgana, as they trekked through the forest. Gwen was in Morgana’s cloak, having elected to stay in her wet clothes and _not_ be accidentally burned alive, and Morgana had been given Merlin’s jacket in commiseration, which was helping some to hold off the wind. Merlin of course was now freezing also, but at least they all shivered equally, and so it was fair.

In fact they were all starting to think of the business as being rather successful by the time they finally reached the edge of the woods at dusk, and they were all looking forward to sitting around the fire with a nice hot drink when, for some inexplicable reason, Arthur was suddenly in front of them, arms crossed and face of stone. Probably he was feeling left out.

“What,” said Arthur, menacingly, “in all god’s name have you three been _doing_.”

Merlin shut up immediately, for once, and Gwen squeaked. Morgana tried to do some very fast thinking.

“What does it look like?” she asked, drawing herself up to her full height. Given that she was still looking rather bedraggled, and was dripping wet, it was quite impressive that she could still possess an aura of regency. Arthur eyed her.

“You really do not want to know.”

“Arthur—” tried Merlin, but Arthur held up a finger, and Merlin fell quiet.

“My father,” he hissed, “would kill each and every one of you if he found out about this.”

Morgana felt Merlin’s panic, and pushed her own aside. She was a very good liar, much better than her companions, and it came in handy for things like this. Also, she had the self-confidence and arrogance to really sell it, which was always a bonus. “And what is there to find out, Arthur? That Gwen and I went walking, and accidentally fell in a lake? That while we were walking back we ran into Merlin, who was collecting herbs for Gaius, and he very graciously offered to escort us back to the castle? Is that what you’re talking about?”

They stared each other down.

“You fell,” repeated Arthur.

“That’s right.”

“In a lake.”

“Correct.”

He turned on Gwen. “You _both_ fell in a lake?”

“Well, I,” said Gwen, stammering, and Morgana interrupted: “ _I_ fell in the lake, Arthur, Gwen got pulled in when she was trying to help me out. She behaved very nobly.”

She punctuated this with a great big lovestruck look at Gwen, which is probably what tilted Arthur from flat-out not believing the story into maybe-possibly-considering-it. He squinted at them both, and then strode up to Merlin. Morgana tried to hide a wince.

“Herbs,” Arthur said. Merlin gave him a huge, stupid grin.

“Yup. Gaius loves ‘em. Uses them for all sorts.”

“Really,” said Arthur, in a _fat chance_ sort of voice. Merlin frowned at him.

“Are you feeling alright? You’re more monosyllabic than usual. I know sentences are tough, but you could try using them, we won’t laugh.”

Morgana snickered. Arthur glared, and ground his jaw.

“Get out of my sight, all of you. I don’t want to see or hear of anything like this happening again.”

Merlin beamed in spite of the fact that it was said in the same manner one would sentence execution. “Thanks, Arthur.”

“Not you,” said Arthur, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. “ _You_ are going to do all the chores you neglected today.”

He pushed Merlin away in the direction of the castle. Merlin waited until Arthur’s back was turned, and then sent both Gwen and Morgana a cheery wave. Morgana smiled back at him.

“Are you going to let us go?”” she said, to Arthur. “In case you haven’t noticed, the both of us are in dire need of a hot bath.”

Arthur sighed, and waved a hand. “Fine, yes, go. Just… don’t let anyone see you.”

Morgana patted his shoulder and, taking Gwen by the hand, tugged her past him. They slipped back up to Morgana’s room, where the fire was already roaring (being the king’s ward had its perks, evidently) and stripped down to their underclothes. Then they sat down on the hearth to warm their hands and feet, trying very hard to only look at each other’s faces.

“I can call for a bath,” Morgana said, eventually. “Someone would bring it up.”

“I’m alright,” said Gwen, quietly. “Though you should have one, if you want to.”

Morgana shook her head. “I’m so exhausted, I’d probably fall asleep in it. I didn’t rescue you from a lake only to drown in my own bathtub.”

Gwen ducked her head, a small smile on her face. Her colour had returned, though she looked as weary as Morgana felt, and her eyes were closed. She hugged her knees to her chest.

“Will you stay here, tonight?” asked Morgana. “I’d like to have you close by.”

“Of course, my lady.”

They sat there a while longer, until feeling returned to their limbs, and then Morgana stood and withdrew two nightgowns from her wardrobe. She passed one to Gwen, so that she would have something warm to put on.

Something had happened between them, because they retreated to either side of the dressing screen to change, and the air was thick with tension. Their wet dresses had been slung over an arm chair, and now Gwen rearranged its position so it was nearer the fire, her hand lingering on them as she became lost in thought. Morgana felt strangely on-display, and climbed beneath her covers to try and dissuade the feeling while Gwen set about blowing out the candles, for although it had only just gone dusk, they were in silent agreement that all they really wanted to do was slip into sleep. Gwen had reached those at the bedside when Morgana caught her eye.

“Will you stay, _here_ , tonight?” she repeated, and Gwen looked at her. She chewed her lip for a moment, and then cupped Morgana’s jaw with her hand.

“Yes, my lady.”

Morgana smiled, eyes sliding closed, and Gwen stroked her thumb across her cheekbone once before pulling away. She went to the other side of the bed and slipped under the covers, crawling close to Morgana and settling on her side. They lay opposite one another, in a manner that had become rare for them in adulthood, and simply gazed at each other a while. Morgana stroked Gwen’s cheek.

“Thank you for saving me,” whispered Gwen. “I’m sorry I put you through that.”

“You did nothing, Gwen. And you need not thank me. You know how dear you are to me.”

Gwen’s eyes roamed over her face. “Do I?”

Morgana nodded.

“And I to you,” she said. Underneath her touch, Gwen turned her face and kissed Morgana’s palm where it rested on her cheek, then took it in her own. They fell asleep like this; curled towards one another, their hands cradled between them, and the fire slowly dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully none of you speak latin because every time i write a spell i just put it into google translate and pick some random latin words <3 
> 
> also i literally couldn’t care less about the class roles in merlin. if i say morgana doesn’t give a fuck then she doesn’t and you’ll all just have to deal with it


	8. What’s Worse Than A Sorcerer? A Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mordred is there, I guess.

Let us not judge Gwen too harshly for the turmoil she experienced over the coming weeks. It was all very well for Merlin and Morgana to be sympathetic to magic, given that they had their personal stakes in the matter (even if one of these remained largely unknown), but we should remember that Gwen had gone the entirety of her life being told magic was a force used only for evil, and that all those who practiced it knew exactly what they were doing, thanks very much, and therefore deserved to be sent down for it.

Now, Gwen knew perfectly well that the murder of innocent people was wrong, and she had never taken pleasure in the execution of magic users, but nor had she ever perceived herself as having any power to change this (and, to be fair, this was currently true). In theory she knew that magic did not bother her, which is why she felt so dreadfully guilty about her feelings for Merlin. He was her friend, and she trusted him with her life, and as she had told him before she would willingly grant him anything, and yet after he revealed his magic to her she found herself reluctant to see him, and an odd heavy sensation accompanying her whenever she did.

She tried very hard not to let these feelings show, and we will tell you that she succeeded. Merlin never realised that his friend was not all that stoked about his being a sorcerer, and Gwen was glad of this, for she truly did not want him to feel that she loved him any less; her difficulty with accepting magic was her own burden to bear, not his, especially not when he lived in Camelot, of all places, and faced the threat of persecution every waking day. But even in spite of this resolve she struggled.

It might be well to point out that Gwen had never even witnessed an act of magic, and by the time she finally got first-hand experience with the subject, it was in the form of a wrongful sentence to execution and having her free will utterly revoked from her. These did not inspire confidence in the thing.

In addition to the guilt, Gwen was terrified. Merlin might have gotten used to walking around with an invisible wanted sign hanging above his head, but Gwen hadn’t. The night after she had been let in on the secret she had not slept a wink, too plagued by worry over what would happen to him if he was found out, and calculating all the possible ways it could happen. Would Arthur let him off? What if he were discovered by someone else? Could Arthur then convince Uther not to execute him? He had not been able to do so for Gwen, but then he might try harder for his own servant: but would he even want to? She fretted over it constantly, and found herself daydreaming scenarios in which she could provide Merlin with alibis, just so she had a healthy number up her sleeve if it ever came down to it.

Also there was Morgana to think of. Once she had recovered from the Sidhe ordeal, Gwen had been rather shocked to learn that Morgana had known about Merlin for months now, and she worried about this fact a little. She knew they were friends, and that Morgana was often vocal about her disapproval of Uther’s attitude, but it concerned her that Morgana essentially held Merlin’s life in the balance. It concerned her that _she_ now had this power; Gwen had never desired power over anyone, and now that she had it she hated the fact. She worried that a circumstance would arise in which she might use that power, and she worried that she might become at ease with asking for Merlin’s magical assistance and even _expect_ his help in situations where he would not _want_ to help, but would have to, because he was worried that if he didn’t she would tell Uther.

Needless to say, Gwen was having a bit of a rough time.

Because fate is annoyingly smug about its business, this was probably why it only took a week before a new magical threat entered the kingdom, and landed on Gwen’s doorstep. We call it a threat, but it would not be that for at least another ten years or so (not that that mattered to Uther), and was really more of a concern, at this point. Also, it was Merlin’s fault.

Gwen and Morgana had been having a lovely spot of afternoon tea in her chambers, complete with cold drinks and fresh fruit, and then Merlin had burst in without knocking (which, honestly, when did he ever), with a little boy at his side.

The next few moments were all a daze for Gwen, because she had to deal with her uncertain feelings for Merlin suddenly showing up, and contend with worry for the boy, and then fear that the knights knocking on the door would discover him, and also before any of this started she had been quite distracted by how the strawberries were staining Morgana’s lips, so really had not been in quite the right headspace to be suddenly thrust into crisis mode, not that that ever seemed to make a difference.

They set the boy up behind Morgana’s screen, Merlin and Morgana tending to him while Gwen fetched blankets and pillows to make him more comfortable. Merlin was also filling them both in on what extraordinary circumstances had led to his involvement this time. The longer he spoke the angrier Gwen got; she was not sold on magic, no, but the idea of a manhunt being conducted for this little boy positively boiled her blood. She could not believe that her kingdom could be so cruel, so as to slay a man for merely buying supplies, when he had meant no harm. And to wish to execute this child on basis only of his heritage— her hands were shaking as she laid down the blankets.

Morgana saw, and laid a hand on her back. Merlin was getting a look at the boy’s wounded arm, and Gwen took her first positive leap into the world of magic:

“Can you heal him, like you did me?” she asked, and Merlin looked up with wide eyes. He glanced back down at the boy.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not that good at medicinal magic, I dunno if I could do it on my own.”

Here, for some reason, he shot a curious glance at Morgana, but did not say anything. “If I could get some supplies from Gaius I might be able to treat it the old fashioned way.”

“Well then you must,” urged Morgana. With the hand not on Gwen she had taken the boy’s, to soothe him. His eyes were very blue and his face blank, which unsettled Gwen, but she thought that must be from the injury. The days following were ones of uncertainty. For the most part, Mordred (for this was the boy’s name) and his stay in Camelot was Morgana’s tale, with appearances of course from Merlin and Arthur. Gwen was kept to the background, but it was in the background that she did much of the important work.

The skill of stealing food that she had developed from her games with Merlin was put to good use, and she managed to make sure that neither Morgana nor Mordred went hungry during his stay, though Morgana would certainly have given him her meal if necessary. Gwen walked through the castle and the lower town on high alert, aware with every footstep that she was aiding and abetting in an act of treason. Morgana assured her that she would take the blame if necessary, but it was Gwen’s dress which she borrowed, and Gwen’s house to which she was bringing the boy between escaping the castle and escaping the city, so really Gwen was already wrapped up in it beyond help.

“I hope they’re okay,” said Gwen, to fill the silence, as she packed and repacked fresh bandages and food into a bag. Merlin was pacing by her kitchen table, fiddling with an apple. Neither of them had been able to stay still for any prolonged period of time. “Morgana really cares about the boy, I’ve never seen her this way with anyone.”

“Except for you,” said Merlin, but neither of them could commit to the teasing.

“Shush,” said Gwen, half-heartedly, and Merlin pulled an apologetic face.

“I’m sure she just wants to protect him,” he said, and Gwen hummed, unsure of her own thoughts. She could not explain why she felt so uneasy about the boy; it was only a feeling, and in the end she attributed it to the knowledge the boy was a druid, and expected it must be her own prejudices acting up. She felt terribly guilty about this, and tried to squash the feeling down, but no matter how hard she tried she could not get rid of the feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong, and Morgana was at the centre of it. Gwen threw down what she was holding, collapsed onto a chair and put her head in her hands, waiting. The warning bell sounded.

“Shit,” said Merlin, and hurried to the door, peering out into the town. Gwen abruptly stood again, and started to pace in Merlin’s place. If Morgana were caught… she was the king’s ward, yes, but Uther did not take lightly to being betrayed. How much would his care for her protect her? The druid boy may not have been magic himself (so far as Gwen knew), but he was from a people of magic, and Gwen knew only too well how blind the word made Uther.

“They’re coming,” whispered Merlin, and moments later stepped aside so they could enter, Gwen pulling Morgana in by the arm. The door shut with a click.

“There’s enough food for three days,” said Gwen, and Merlin carried on, both of them talking over one another in their haste: “Your horse is fed and watered, I’ll take you to it.”

“No,” said Morgana, frantically, to stop him, “There’s no point in all of us risking our lives, I’ll go alone.”

“ _Morgana—_ ” said Gwen, aghast, but Morgana cut her off.

“I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to either of you,” she burst, though she looked mostly at Gwen. “We must go, alone.”

“Morgana!” Gwen grabbed her, and there was a brief moment where they only looked at one another, Gwen trying to convey everything she was feeling through nothing but the look in her eyes and the press of her fingers on Morgana’s arm. She wondered if Morgana understood, if this was how she had felt when Gwen was sentenced to execution.

“I’ll be fine,” said Morgana, softly, and then she and the boy were gone. Merlin leaned against the door, closing his eyes, and he looked much older than he was. Gwen could hardly stand to be so still, and immediately started to pace again, throwing out a whole jumble of words.

“This is madness,” she whispered, worrying her fingers together. “How shall we know if they are caught? Are we just — are we just expected to sit here, without doing anything, waiting? What if something goes wrong, or I haven’t packed enough food? What if his wound opens up again—?”

“Gwen,” said Merlin, who had stood up, and now touched her shoulder. She broke off to keep from sobbing, and Merlin pulled her into a hug, a bit awkwardly. “Gwen, stop it. It’s going to be alright.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Even if they are caught, Uther won’t harm Morgana. She’s right, she’s his ward, she has that protection.”

“He’s a madman,” she whispered, and then clamped her mouth shut. Merlin let her go, and held her by the upper arms, squeezing slightly.

“Not to Morgana,” he said, and Gwen forced herself to see sense, and to slow her breathing. Unfortunately for them all Morgana _was_ caught, by Arthur no less, and Uther flew into a fury. Gwen could only be grateful that Morgana was unharmed, and then felt terrible for thinking such a thing when the boy was sentenced to death. She worried over it, and then volunteered to take food down to him when it was time, since many of the other servants were wary of him.

He looked sickly in the cell, and as Gwen knelt beside him she gently touched his brow, trying to ascertain if he were still ill.

“Eat,” she said, and pressed the bread and cheese into his hand. He did not answer her, though she could not be offended by this. She remembered all too well what it had been like to be on this side of the dungeon bars. She smoothed his hair down.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and had no choice but to leave him. She was having a little cry in the stairwell, in what she had thought was a fairly secluded spot, when she was happened upon not by another servant, or guard, which would have been bearable, but by Arthur, of all people.

“Guinevere,” he said, startled, and then looked extremely uncomfortable as he realised she was crying. Gwen jumped, and hastily wiped her cheeks, although it wouldn’t do much good, now.

“My lord,” she said, looking at her feet.

“What’s the matter, are you hurt?”

“No,” said Gwen, and tried to smile; she did an abysmal job, and felt all the sorrier for it. “No, sire, I’m sorry. I only — it’s fine.”

“Not trouble with Merlin, I hope?” said Arthur, and his face was now contorted into a grimace. Gwen was so surprised by the question that for a moment she forgot to be upset.

“With Merlin?”

“Aren’t you and he… you know?” Here Arthur made a wiggly gesture with his fingers which she could not work out, and neither could he, apparently, because he stared down at his own hand in confusion when he was done.

“Courting,” he added, gruffly, and Gwen felt her eyes widen.

“No!” she said, her own surprise reflected on Arthur’s face. “No, I mean, Merlin’s _lovely_ , but we’re not — no. Not at all. Never.”

She shook her head violently, unable to stop an expression of distaste from crossing her face, and Arthur began to look a little amused.

“So that’s a no, then?” he joked, and then started to walk down the corridor. Gwen could only assume she was meant to follow, and so did, even though she was conscious of what she must look like, what with the crying and all.

“Yes, sire,” said Guinevere, and Arthur smiled at her. It was quite a nice smile, she’d admit, though it looked a little tired around the edges. Maybe it was helped along by the golden glow coming in through the arches.

“It’s alright, Guinevere. I don’t blame you, Merlin’s hardly got two redeeming qualities to rub together.”

Gwen was slightly offended, but she thought he was trying to cheer her up, and so tried not to be.

“Well, he is my friend,” she said, cautiously. “But I was upset because of—because of the druid boy, my lord.”

She could not believe it had come out of her mouth, and to the _prince_ , no less. She looked very steadfastly ahead, but saw him glance at the ground out of the corner of her eye, clearing his throat.

“Ah,” Arthur said. They walked in silence, and then Arthur abruptly stopped.

“Guinevere—” he began. “You’re Morgana’s maid, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“Hm.” He seemed to wrestle with something, then finally said, not looking at her (and instead staring rather pointedly at the sun setting over Camelot’s citadel), and in a voice that implied there was something of grave importance being imparted: “Perhaps you could help out in the kitchen’s tonight. Or the laundry. Somewhere with… people.”

“Sire?”

“Just. It might be best if you were you not alone, this evening.”

Gwen blinked at him. “I— of course, sire.”

“Very good,” said Arthur, and with a nod of his head begun to walk again. This time Gwen did not follow, and instead returned to Morgana’s chambers, where she was filled in on the fact that Arthur was planning to help the boy escape, while Morgana was to dine with Uther. This would, Morgana said, help keep her from suspicion, and it was these words that made Gwen realise what Arthur had been trying to do earlier. It was quite considerate of him; Gwen was starting to think he might be not such a terrible bully after all.

“You’re risking so much for this boy,” murmured Gwen, as she placed the finishing touches on Morgana’s look. She smoothed the fabric clothing Morgana’s shoulders probably more than necessary, trying to prolong the time before she was set to see Uther, perhaps in order to change her mind.

“There’s a bond between us,” said Morgana. “I don’t know what it is.”

The unrest still curled in Gwen’s stomach, but she wished her luck anyway, and did nothing. After all, destiny could only take so many changes, and Gwen had already done more than her fair share in altering it. She could hardly be expected to change the fate of Camelot in its entirety, especially when she was unaware that that was what she was doing. We must remember that Mordred was only a boy, and that the dragon had been wrong before.

It was truly a pity that this time he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur can lead an army into battle but can he tell the difference between left and right without making L shapes with his hands? you decide
> 
> hopefully none of you are too mad at poor gwen... her love for merlin (and later morgana) are way stronger than her than her feelings about magic, though. she's just gotta unlearn those two decades of having propaganda shoved down her throat


	9. The Trip to Mercia, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they are all twenty-somethings, and therefore idiots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me after all that mordred stuff: ok lets let them goof off for a bit

Morgana wanted some silk.

Actually, it was Gwen who had mentioned it, initially only in passing, but Morgana had latched onto it and was now on a full-blown mission. She would get Gwen some silk if she had to claw through a group of bandits herself. Luckily this would not be necessary, and in fact going about it was rather more simple, for by some chance or another Arthur was leading a group of men over to Bayard’s kingdom a few days from now (and Bayard possessed truly extraordinary cloth makers), and staying there a week, and Morgana and Gwen would be welcome to accompany them for the journey. Merlin was ecstatic.

“Oh, this is _great_ ,” he said, when he heard about it. He was ostensibly brushing down Morgana’s curtains, but they had long ago dispatched with that ruse and now he was sitting on the windowsill and swinging his legs. “No, really, I can’t tell you how boring it is listening to all those knights talk. You two coming along means I’ll actually get some decent company for once.”

“You don’t mean that,” chided Gwen, from where she was actually doing her chores. Morgana was glad to see that she seemed to have moved past her misgivings about magic. She had done a very good job of hiding it, but Morgana had been able to tell. Now Gwen seemed quite invested in learning more, and watched with fascination whenever the chance arose, and her warmth towards Merlin had possibly even increased (which prior to this Morgana would not have thought possible).

“Can you blame him?” laughed Morgana. “It’s the knights and Arthur, how much more dull can you get?”

“I’m glad to hear you think so highly of me,” said Arthur’s voice, from behind her. She twisted to give him a withering look.

“Can’t you knock?” she spat, and Arthur shrugged.

“Door was open. Which it shouldn’t be, if you’re going to go about insulting the prince.”

“That was me,” chimed Merlin, and waved. He had not tried in any way to look like he was being useful. Arthur didn’t look perturbed; instead he sat down in the chair next to Morgana’s, and also kicked his feet up on the table.

“I’m not surprised, Merlin. You seem to have an astonishing talent for saying things that will get you killed.”

“You’re in good sports,” said Morgana, suspiciously. “And get your feet off my table, you’ll scuff it.”

Arthur took no heed, and instead swiped one of the apples from her fruit bowl. Morgana narrowed her eyes at him.

“Father wanted me to make sure you were prepared for our journey tomorrow,” he said, lazily, and took a bite of the fruit. “Something about ensuring you don’t get up to any trouble.”

“I’ll be in the other room, my lady,” said Gwen, and touched Morgana’s shoulder briefly as she passed, quite unnecessarily and also (Morgana suspected) unthinkingly. Arthur raised his eyebrows at her, in a manner that was both very knowing and very annoying, and Morgana suddenly felt hot under the collar.

“Look at that, you’ve scared poor Gwen off with your appalling manners,” she snapped, and Arthur grinned.

“Hardly, Guinevere and I are friends.”

Merlin made a noise that Morgana echoed.

“I don’t think so, Gwen has much better taste than to put up with you.”

Arthur shrugged deviously. “Surprised you know so much about her tastes, Morgana.”

Morgana’s eye twitched. Possibly this is what caused Merlin to jump in.

“You know, Arthur, if you’re going around befriending servants, there’s always me.”

“Ah, yes, but you’re a fool, Merlin.”

Merlin scrunched up his face. Morgana didn’t think he was actually offended, but she couldn’t really tell when it came to these two.

“Well there’s no need to be rude,” he muttered, and Arthur looked at him.

“What _are_ you doing in here, anyway?”

“Hanging out with Morgana.”

“ _’Hanging out’_?”

“Yeah, it’s something you do when you’re friends with someone. Guess you wouldn’t know, seeing as you don’t have any.”  
  
Arthur chucked the half-eaten apple at him. Merlin caught it neatly in his hands, and seemed genuinely pleased.

“Thanks!” he said, and took a bite. Arthur pulled a face.

“Arthur, is there something you actually wanted, or have you just come to harass my friends?” interrupted Morgana, because she was quite aware that once Merlin and Arthur got going they could continue for some time, and it was frankly tiring to watch.

“I _wanted_ ,” began Arthur, pompously, “to see what had detained my servant from readying my horses, seeing as we leave _tomorrow_.”

“Well, as you can see, Merlin is quite busy fixing up my curtains, so it shall just have to wait.” Morgana grinned at him, in a way that said she had outsmarted him and was proud of the fact.

“He’s _sitting_ on the _windowsill!_ ”

They went back and forth on this until Merlin took the matter out of their hands, and went to take care of the horses of his own volition (Morgana and Arthur, once they got their teeth into each other, were equally frustrating to be around). Somewhere along the line it had devolved into arguing over who Merlin liked better, or who liked Merlin better, or something of the sort. Morgana had quite honestly lost track, but she thought she was winning.

“Why,” burst Arthur, suddenly, “is everyone so _bloody_ enamoured with Merlin! Everyone I talk to, it’s all, oh, Merlin’s so nice, Merlin’s so lovely — the man’s an idiot!”

“ _Maybe_ it’s because he isn’t a brat,” snapped Morgana (she later regretted not latching onto the other part of the sentence, which implied Arthur went around talking of Merlin all the time, and which she could have got a week’s worth of teasing out of). “And is nice to people, and genuinely kind, and only wants to help anyone and everyone he can.”

“ _Merlin?”_ repeated Arthur, and Morgana rolled her eyes.

“Oh, you’re just doing it for the sake of it, now,” she said (she was quite right), and got up. She knocked his feet off the table, which fell to the floor with a bang, and then eventually cajoled him out of the room so she could prepare herself for their trip. She had dismissed Gwen for the afternoon, allowing her to spend some time with her father and ready herself, and so packed her things herself.

(Well, she lay them out on the bed, at least. Morgana did not care for classes on principle, but she also did not expect to do the grunt work herself. It was one of her many contradictions).

In the morning they set off for Mercia, and their party consisted of the following: Arthur, Merlin, Morgana and Gwen, Sir Leon, and then a handful of other knights who do not need to be named, given that they do not come into our tale (neither does Sir Leon, really, but we thought you might like to know he was there). It was a three day ride to their destination, so they journeyed with little stops for the better part of the day that they might get there sooner, and there were little occurrences of note. Merlin was a poor horseman, Arthur made fun of him, Gwen and Morgana exchanged significant looks; this was all becoming rather commonplace.

In the evening they set up camp, Morgana and Gwen a little way away from the knights, because there was a general feeling that the knights’ talk was not for ladies ears, although Morgana could easily have stomached it and possibly even improved upon it (Gwen could have, too, but she might have gone rather red). Of course, the two could also not be left without protection, and Arthur cared about Morgana rather a lot (regardless of what he said), and didn’t trust anyone else to look after her, and so it was him (and by extension Merlin) who were decided to camp beside them. 

They constructed a second fire, which for whatever reason would not light (“Give it here, Merlin, honestly, you can’t do anything,” said Arthur, and then received several well-aimed jabs when he could do no better, and sat down on a log in a sulk) until Gwen was given a shot, at which point it roared into being.

“Blacksmith’s daughter,” she said, in explanation, although Morgana did not think that quite accounted for it. They sat around it and Morgana produced a flask of ale, which earned a very disapproving look from Arthur (who did not like to be made aware that she was cooler than him), and out of spite he was forced to merely watch as the other three put themselves in even more jovial spirits, and rubbed their friendship in his face.

(They did not mean to do this, obviously. Actually they were all very fond of him, but Arthur’s great failing was that he could not allow himself to feel such things as _fondness_ , and he was jealous that they all behaved so easily around one another where he felt he could not. They perceived his stoic bearing of the activities as integral to fostering the group dynamic, and did not quite realise he felt this way, except for Gwen, who as we know was very well attuned to other people’s feelings).

Merlin had started recounting a story from before he had come to Camelot, when he had still lived in Cenred’s kingdom, in which he and his friend Will had filched a chicken from a neighbouring farmer and got into far more mischief than the act should have required (Morgana was fairly sure the tale was sanitised for Arthur’s benefit, and suspected magic had been originally involved). He told the tale in fits: first in great eagerness, and then turning embarrassed when he realised he was getting excited, and then in a tentative pleasure when Morgana and Gwen egged him on. Even Arthur had let himself smile by the end of it, going so far as to say he hadn’t known Merlin had it in him to be so courageous.

“Are you calling thieving courageous, Arthur?” asked Morgana. “I’m sure Uther would have plenty to say about that.”

“Well, it does require some sort of steely will, doesn’t it?” He looked at Merlin, grin on his lips; “Bravery or stupidity, it’s the same thing with Merlin, isn’t it?”

Merlin nodded sagely. “You’d know, sire. There’s a reason they call you the bravest knight of Camelot.”

It took them all a second to cotton on to his meaning, but it was Gwen who laughed first; a half gasp that she immediately covered with both hands, while Arthur pulled Merlin into a headlock.

“I’m the _prince_ —” he said, but through a grin, and devolved into calling Merlin a series of insults that do not bear repeating here (so he did know how to feel fondness, after all, it just came out rather roundabout). Merlin was laughing too, and they scuffled for a while, until Merlin nearly put out the fire with his kicking, and Morgana doused Arthur with the rest of the ale to get him to stop.

“I could have you in jail for that,” he panted, and although this was an opening for a discussion about the abuse of power (which someone should really have with him, at some point) it was said only in jest, and he would not have really done it, he just liked reminding people he was important. “I’ll stink like a brewery tomorrow.”

“You stink anyway,” said Merlin, which nearly set them off again, and so to avoid it Gwen said they needed more firewood, and Merlin and Morgana hustled off to get some, after reassuring Arthur they would yell very loudly if they ran into trouble. Gwen stayed behind to sit with Arthur, and they had a conversation in which Gwen (having seen that he felt himself on the outskirts) very gently prodded him into trying to see that they liked having him there, and that he could join in without needing to stay in his comfort zone of torturing Merlin, except of course she did this all very discreetly and indeed so well that Arthur was quite convinced it was his own idea. She was good like that.

While this was happening Merlin and Morgana were wandering in the wood, far enough from the camp that they could not be heard but the fires were still visible, and Merlin was doing magic, seemingly without a care that he had ten of Camelot’s best knights less than fifty yards away. It was very simple magic; he was leaning against a tree and making the fire wood gather itself, and Morgana was watching.

“Will you teach me a spell?” she asked, eventually, and the sticks that had been levitating abruptly dropped to the ground.

“A what?” said Merlin, who was fairly sure he hadn’t heard right.

Morgana had not meant to ask it, really, it was just that she had seen him do it on a few occasions now, and whenever she watched him she felt a huge yearning behind her ribcage, which she thought perhaps would be satisfied by an attempt at replicating it.

“Teach me a spell,” she said.

“You— _you_ want to practice magic?”

“Just one spell,” said Morgana, a bit defensively, and crossed her arms. “It’s alright if you can’t, I suppose, but I just thought—”

“No!” Merlin stopped leaning against the tree. “No, yeah, I totally can, um. What spell?”

“Something nice,” said Morgana, and watched him frown. Then he came over to her, and held his palm up between them.

“ _Flos faecere,”_ he whispered, and Morgana watched in fascination as a flower bloomed in his hand under the moonlight, conjured from nothing. He shot her a hesitant smile. “Like that?”

“Show me again,” commanded Morgana, and so he did. She touched the petals of the new flower with her finger, and beamed at him. Her feeling was not unlike that of someone who has just been confronted with a newborn baby, and the knowledge that this baby did not exist some nine months ago; it was a giddy, almost disbelieving joy. She repeated the words.

Nothing happened, although Merlin told her not to be dismayed. He knew very little about learning magic, he said, because he had been born with it; he did not know what it was like to try and learn from scratch. He conjured one last flower, and then gave all three to Morgana, since they seemed to make her so happy. When they got back to the camp, she would place them in Gwen’s hair.

Gwen and Arthur, at this time, were having an arm wrestle.

It’s alright if you don’t believe us, because neither did Merlin and Morgana, and they were the two who actually witnessed it. They had propped their elbows on an upturned tree stump, and Arthur had started by going easy on her, to save her dignity, and then found that he rather had to try. Gwen’s arm was now about halfway to defeat, but this was still quite impressive, given that she was a small girl, and was versing Arthur Pendragon.

“How are you this strong?” said Arthur, in disbelief. The answer of course was that Gwen also trained with a sword, and often helped out with the blacksmith’s duties, which was never easy work and usually required some deal of heavy-lifting.

“Appearances are deceiving,” she grunted out, and so the first lesson of the trip was learned. Morgana briefly considered Gwen’s biceps, and felt vaguely dizzy.

Night progressed, as it was wont to do, and then there was another day of riding to get through, and yet another cold evening. It went about in a very similar manner to the first, with Gwen and Morgana settling down to sleep side by side, huddled together for warmth. Their legs slipped between one another’s, and their foreheads were almost touching, placing them close enough that they breathed the same air. Gwen was half asleep when Merlin and Arthur got into it again, because they were incapable of going an hour without bugging one another.

“How come I never get any of that?” she heard Merlin ask, and assumed he was talking about her and Morgana, and the way they were wrapped up in one another.

“Because you’re not as pretty as Morgana,” grunted Arthur, in return. “Or Gwen, for that matter.”

Silence.

“You know, it _is_ pretty cold—”

“ _Merlin_ —”

“For warmth! For warmth—"

“Don’t be such a _girl,_ ” hissed Arthur, and that seemed to be the end of it.

Under their shared blankets, Gwen moved a little closer to Morgana, and wrapped an arm around her waist, because Merlin was right, and it _was_ cold. Morgana made a soft humming noise, and nuzzled against Gwen, because the two of them might have been taking things slow, but they were not idiots, and knew perfectly well what they were doing, and could therefore enjoy it in full without needing to put on a show for their own benefit. There were a number of shuffling noises from the other side of the fire.

“ _Merlin_ ,” started Arthur, suddenly, in an indignant whisper. “What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“Trying not to freeze?”

“You are _such_ an idiot,” muttered Arthur, but there was no more movement, so Gwen could only assume that Merlin stayed where he was. She drifted off to sleep in amusement, and though it was cold and slightly damp she felt none of this, and only a pleasant, golden glow that spread throughout her and warmed her limbs and heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't mean to make this about merlin and arthur but they are simply too fun to write. i genuinely think it's going to take them like four years to get together and yet still they are Like That even now... i'm not immune to the banter!


	10. The Trip to Mercia, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they get drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur is the mom friend but he’s the kind of mom you see in target dragging about three children who are all determined to get to the toy section and lick things and is also trying to keep the toddler from escaping the trolley and while this is all going on he is also trying to have a meeting over the phone with his boss

The trip to Mercia was one of great merriment all around, as Arthur’s visit was purely a courtesy; done to show faith in the two kingdoms’ alliance, and not as a result of dire state affairs. He had many a meeting with Bayard, but they were not stuffy or politics based, and many of them took place over good food. There was a feast to celebrate his arrival, during which he and Morgana bonded by being the only person the other knew, and Gwen and Merlin got to try foods they’d never before set their hands on, being that they were not produced in Camelot.

He felt at ease, here. There was the pressure of representing Camelot, of course, and of fostering good will between the kingdoms, but there was a feeling within him of surety. Arthur had been surprised, a little, at learning he would be conducting this diplomatic mission alone, and he’d been slightly tense about it, but it also released him from the feeling of being constantly watched, as if Uther were just waiting for him to make a mistake, and allowed him to conduct himself without criticism; this was a weight off his shoulders that he had not realised he’d been carrying.

He made Bayard laugh, and enjoyed the discussion between them, for Bayard was more inclined towards peaceful action than Uther, and it was— reaffirming, in a way, to see Arthur’s own ideas and ideals displayed by a powerful king. Uther would probably still have dismissed these notions as weakness, but Arthur found that as long as he did not question himself or his feelings too deeply, he was able to exist in a general state of pleasantness.

Perhaps it was the Mercian air, but his companions were also in good spirits. The knights got on well with Bayard’s, and Morgana and Merlin were positively cheery. Arthur did not know why this was so, and he was a little suspicious of the fact, suspecting that maybe they had formed a plot to steal his socks, or something else similarly ridiculous.

We will take the time now to tell you a little of Mercia’s laws, particularly in regard to magic, and perhaps then you will see what had placed Arthur’s two friends in such good spirits.

Magic was not outlawed under Bayard, or at least it was not done so in the same way as Camelot (for Uther could never have been persuaded into an alliance with a state that practiced magic freely). Most notable about the law was that the practice of magic was not a guaranteed death sentence, and that while it was prohibited, it was prohibited in the same way alcohol would be some several centuries later. That is to say, you weren’t meant to do it, and you may get fined (or arrested, if you used it for something particularly bad), or alternatively you might get caught by a knight who was in dire need of a quick spell or two, and let off the hook. It was a system that relied heavily on blind eyes, and also the sort of place where it could be found if you knew where to look.

Arthur was not really aware of this subculture, if we can call it that. He knew magic was not so heavily policed as in Camelot, and was maybe a little on-edge about the fact (he had, after all, been attacked by at least a half dozen or so sorcerers during this last year alone), but that was all. Morgana and Merlin, as we have said, were thrilled by it. Gwen was simply worried that her two friends would let the freedom go their head and do something colossally stupid, and so here once again proved herself to be the wisest of the group.

But that had not happened yet; right now, Arthur was spying on his servant.

Well, it wasn’t really spying. He was on Bayard’s training field, with some of his own knights and some of Bayard’s, and he had been here long before Merlin had entered his line of sight. Also, Arthur was in the type of profession when one had to be on the lookout at all times, so it wasn’t odd that he had noticed Merlin. It was also his job to keep his eye on things that looked suspicious, and Merlin… looked suspicious.

He was talking to Morgana, for one (again, thoughts of conspiracy were dancing around Arthur’s mind), which was never a good sign. They had been gossiping to one another constantly, sharing smiles whenever a candle was lit with the discreet wave of a hand, and laughing more loudly and freely than Arthur had ever heard them do back in Camelot. He wasn’t stupid; he knew they were enamoured by the magic. He himself felt a twisted curiosity towards it, especially when it was used in such mundane ways, but he worried that they were, perhaps, a little _too_ captured by it.

The two of them were making their way around one of Bayard’s gardens, which just so happened to lie near the training ground. They were apparently now interested in the flower bushes; every so often they would stop and inspect one, their backs to Arthur, and when they turned around again Merlin would have a flower from the plant in his hand. This was annoying Arthur: there was Merlin, thinking he could just _take_ things from the king’s very own garden… the audacity of it was astounding, but somehow not unexpected. They stopped now in front of a rose bush, and stood there a very long time. Arthur had given up trying to pretend he was watching his men spar; he wanted to know how long it took them to pick a damn flower. Certainly not this long, surely. When they finally did turn around, it was Morgana who had picked the flower; she held a pink rose in her hands.

Arthur tried to focus back on his knights, and then doubled his efforts as they ambled over to him, though he could tell they were both pleased about something. They came and stood next to him; Morgana on one side, Merlin the other.

“How are they?” asked Morgana, and Arthur shrugged, deliberately not looking at them (he was trying to put on the show that he’d had no idea they were out and about, but it failed miserably. Morgana and Merlin had both noticed his staring some time ago, and had a good giggle over it).

“Very good. Bayard has fine men.”

He mostly said this in case someone overheard, which he suspected Morgana could tell. Merlin definitely could; he had that terrible, smug grin on his face that made Arthur want to punch him.

“Not as fine as you,” said Merlin, cheerily, in what Arthur was sure he would discover was an insult, if he thought about it long enough. Merlin did like to insult him in roundabout ways on occasion, and it was even more embarrassing when Arthur didn’t pick up on it; so he treated everything out of Merlin’s mouth as insolence, because it usually was. He folded his arms.

“And what have you two been doing?”

“Touring the gardens. See?”

Morgana turned to him and held out the rose. She seemed so utterly pleased with it, for whatever reason, and so Arthur couldn’t help but smile when he glanced down at it. He knew that she had been sleeping poorly, and he liked to see her happy, even if to him it was only a flower.

“It’s very pretty,” he allowed, and she beamed. Merlin looked proud.

“Wipe that look off your face, Merlin,” he said, and pushed him away via a hand to the offending customer.

“This is just my face!” protested Merlin, mouth moving under Arthur’s hand, and getting slobber all over it. Arthur grimaced, and wiped it on the front of Merlin’s tunic, which was then whinged about for a good deal longer than it warranted. They stood around and talked some more, and then Arthur escorted Morgana back to the castle (and Merlin, he supposed, although Merlin was supposed to follow him about, so perhaps they both escorted her), and then went to dine with Bayard for the second evening in a row. Morgana had excused herself from the event (odd, he thought she liked knowing about state affairs), and so after supper he went to her rooms, not because he was worried about her and wanted to check on her, but because he thought Merlin might have finally bored her to death, and he wanted to make sure this wasn’t the case, because his father would never forgive him.

He did remember to knock, this time, because the door was shut, and then he had to wait a good thirty seconds before somebody opened it.

“What,” snapped Morgana, opening it just enough so that she could talk to him, and not enough to let him in, and also to obstruct his view. She looked rather harried.

“I wanted to check you were all right,” said Arthur, frowning. He tried to peer into the room, but it was only Guinevere in there, tidying up Morgana’s dinner. Although, come to think of it, she looked slightly agitated too.

“I’m fine,” Morgana said, and moved her body so that she blocked his view. “Thank you, Arthur, but your concern is quite unnecessary.”

She was trying too hard to get him to leave; Arthur’s senses catapulted into red alert, and he couldn’t really be blamed for jumping to the worst conclusion, given all the assassination attempts that seemed to occur around him. It seemed perfectly reasonable to him to assume that someone was in the room, perhaps trying to keep him from entering in order to arouse suspicion— in fact, it wouldn’t be such a leap for them to be behind the door, perhaps with a knife pointed to Morgana’s side. He pushed on the door.

“Arthur—” started Morgana, frantically, “You can’t just _come in_ —”

There was no assassin. Arthur frowned, standing in the middle of the room with one hand on his sword, and Morgana put her hand on her forehead. He didn’t understand—

“Oh,” said Arthur, looking at the dining table. Gwen had frozen when he’d burst in, a fork in her hand, although he could see now that she had not been packing up at all, merely trying to look busy. There were two plates on the table. And a candle. Arthur began to feel terribly embarrassed.

“Ah,” he said, and Morgana grasped his arm. There was colour high on her cheekbones, and she tugged him firmly towards the door.

“Get out,” she hissed, pushing at him. “Honestly, you are the most _ridiculous,_ _annoying, self-centred—_ ”

He did not get to hear the end of it, because she slammed the door in his face. He had to walk back to his own chambers in a bit of a daze, pondering this new development and trying to decide how he felt about it. Merlin noticed.

“All right, what’s happened?” he asked, as he helped Arthur out of his jacket. “Don’t tell me dinner with Bayard was _that_ bad.”

“I went to see Morgana,” said Arthur, even though this was not the sort of thing one discussed with one’s manservant. But he suspected that, if there was anything to know, Merlin would; he was friends with them both, after all. He got his confirmation when Merlin’s hands faltered.

“Huh—” he said, in an unconvincing tone of surprise, and cleared his throat. “Really? How did that go?”

“I think,” said Arthur, testing the words, “That her and Guinevere are courting.”

Merlin did not say anything, so Arthur turned around.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

“Well,” said Merlin, and shot that ridiculous grin at him, the one that he thought got him out of all trouble just because it worked on Cook (and Gwen, and usually Gaius, and also most of the knights). “I mean, it is obvious. Surprised you didn’t notice.”

(Merlin was, actually, a bit surprised. _We_ all know that Arthur was as blind as a bat when it came to spotting the obvious, given the amount of times that Merlin used magic right under his nose, but Merlin himself thought that he was being stealthy, and therefore did not see Arthur’s ignorance as indicating a general lack of observational powers).

“I _did_ ,” said Arthur, which was true. He’d been teasing Morgana for weeks about using her allowance to import figs and grapes and honey just for Gwen, and then for organising a two week trip to get her hands on some silk after Gwen had just happened to mention it. But he didn’t realise she was _doing_ something about her feelings.

Merlin worked his jaw, which was never a good sign. It meant he was gearing up to be serious, which was not a trait Arthur ever supported him in indulging in. “Look; I know it’s not, you know, proper, or whatever, being that Gwen’s a servant, but they really… they really care about each other.”

“It’s not that,” Arthur said.

“What is it, then?”

The trouble was that Arthur didn’t know. It was just… curious. Merlin wasn’t any help, not that he had expected him to be, and actually he wanted to gossip about it, now that Arthur had broached the subject, and Arthur had to remind him that he was a prince, and princes did not gossip.

“Rubbish,” said Merlin, with a grin, “just last week you were complaining about how Sir Kay didn’t show up for training because he was with a girl.”

“That was _not_ gossiping!” said Arthur, heatedly.

“You heard it from Sir Leon!”

“Yes, because he is a _knight_ , and it was _knight’s business_ , and therefore _my_ business being that I am also, in fact, _a knight_.”

“It was gossiping,” said Merlin, and Arthur flicked his ear. “Ow!”

So Arthur went about with this new knowledge, and did not think on it all that often, although it was maybe for the best that he had found out, because it meant that he did not freak out when he could not find either of them (or Merlin) two days later, and instead remained very calm and rational as he conducted a search by himself, and resisted the urge to call in the knights. 

He journeyed down into the town, because there was a market on and he thought it most likely that Morgana was busy trying to wow Guinevere with the selection of fabrics, and also that they had somehow sweet-talked Merlin into carrying the silks for them. This was a calm, rational explanation for where they might all be. He wandered past the stalls therefore at a purposefully leisurely pace, stopping at each fabric seller and then moving to the one next in his line of sight, and in doing so hoped to trace their steps (he was repeating them almost exactly, in fact, and was practically hot on the trail). It was late afternoon when he began to feel that this was not working particularly well, because the market was dwindling and the streets were beginning to clear, and also he had nearly got to the end of the strip.

Arthur was not a babysitter. He was the prince of Camelot, and he did not _have_ to know the whereabouts of his adoptive sister, her maid, and his own impertinent manservant. He still rather wanted to, though, so he gave it a last ditch effort, and decided to enter the first pub he happened across.

(Gaius had not used the tavern excuse yet, but Arthur remembered the feast they’d held in honour of Lancelot and carrying a drunken Merlin back to his rooms whilst he sang at the top of his lungs, so it seemed a relatively smart bet).

By luck (not destiny, this time, it was pure chance), Arthur’s hunch was right, which he discovered almost immediately upon entry. For although it was afternoon, it was also market day, and in this area of town that called for great celebration: the tavern was roaring, everyone was in a good mood, and two out-of-towners had just (quite possibly) invented a new form of gambling.

A crowd had gathered around these two, and Arthur instantly identified them as (unfortunately) his own friends. Morgana was in one of Guinevere’s dresses, and her hair was tied back simply; she did not look like the lady she was, which he supposed was intentional. He could not see what was happening on the table, because there was quite a crowd around them, but whatever it was was causing choruses of cheers and groans to erupt from the rest of the pub’s patrons, and therefore could not have been a good idea. He was torn between yelling and laughing, and hadn’t quite made up his mind when Guinevere nearly walked into him.

“Arthur!” she cried, eyes wide. “I— what are you doing here?”

“The three of you astound me,” said Arthur, and shook his head. He was coming down on the laughing side of things, because, well, _really_. “Here I was expecting you all to have been doing something useful, and you’re in the _tavern_.”

Gwen blushed. “We only wanted Merlin to have some fun.”

“Oh, yes, he seems to be having a grand old time.”

A particularly loud round of cheers arose. Gwen bit her lip, and seemed to be sizing him up. He quite liked Guinevere, because she was kind and usually seemed to fall on his side when Morgana made fun of him. Also she had a good head on her shoulders, and was compassionate, and didn’t break rank nearly as often as Merlin did.

“Come and have a go,” she said, and tilted her head towards the noise. “I know it’s probably a little below the entertainment you’re used to, but you might be surprised.”

“Oh, alright,” said Arthur, acting put-upon but actually rather curious, and went over to the table. The gist was this: Merlin and Morgana, using Uther’s money, were singlehandedly racking up the biggest drinking bill the tavern had ever seen during its stint as a business. They would aim to toss a coin into a patron’s drink; if it landed, they won the drink and the coin, and if it didn’t the patron kept both. Patrons were also allowed to move their tankards at the last second, which did not make much sense in terms of fairness, but then drinking games never really do. Both Merlin and Morgana were shockingly good at it, anyway (they were being helped along a bit, we suspect), and also, needless to say, properly sloshed.

“Arthur!” announced Morgana, when he approached. She tossed a coin without looking; it landed on the rim of a bearded man’s cup, and then after a moment of hushed anticipation, fell in. There was more noise: spectators had taken to betting among themselves whether a shot would land, and so a good deal of money was changing hands. “Our new challenger, everybody!”

And so Arthur was given a go, and when he began he was quite good at it, given that he was the only sober person in the whole building. Doubtless you will have realised, however, that being good at the game only led to downfall; soon he was well on his way to the same state as the other two. Arthur won himself at least five free drinks, and Morgana another two, upon which she pressed a sloppy kiss to Gwen’s cheek, and Merlin was unfailingly good at it, which started to bother Arthur more than it should have. In the end they stopped with the game, and tried to see how many times they could get a coin to smack the other in the forehead (the answer was quite a lot), while Morgana and Gwen collapsed at a table, laughing at them both.

All of them were quite soon beyond the cognitive abilities for self-reflection, so we will gently step outside of them for a moment as we detail their trip back to the castle. The feelings they were all experiencing were quite new for everyone; Arthur of course had never had people with whom he could be so unrestrained with, and Morgana had for a long time only had Gwen to share her secrets with. Gwen had her friends, but this was not a time at which girls’ nights on the town were a thing, and Merlin had grown up in Ealdor, where there was not a tavern for miles. And besides, there was something special between them, that much is sure. Friendship like this did not simply come along often, and the alcohol freed them all up enough to enjoy it.

Merlin was attempting to give Gwen a piggy-back up the street, and Morgana and Arthur were engaged in a scuffle, though who was running away from who was unclear. They screeched with laughter, and Arthur fell in a ditch, and it was undoubtedly good for him to be somewhere where his title did not matter (at the moment, at least — this would change when they got back to the castle, and people knew him by sight), because he was able to be an idiot and play the full part of the schoolboy that he was, and getting it out in this context allowed him to be less of a prat in other situations. Destinies cannot all be dreary, after all, else there would be no point to them. And so with this in mind, we will leave them to their fun, and leave Arthur to stumble upon Sir Leon, ruffle his hair, and then be mightily embarrassed about it the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merlin: gives arthur a genuine compliment  
> arthur: this is an insult


	11. Gay Rights!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I pepper in the fact that I am gay.

Arthur and Merlin had gone off on a patrol, ostensibly due to a bout of kidnappings, but probably just to look busy.

This was not really in the standard duties of a servant, but patrols were traditionally boring and Merlin’s surly retorts would at least mean that Arthur had something to entertain himself with during the ride, rather than have to keep up the illusion that he was a responsible warrior fellow who didn’t do things like engage in friendly bickering. Or at least, this is what Morgana and Gwen presumed was his reason for making Merlin accompany him, and they were more or less bang-on.

Merlin had whinged about this new requirement a bit to them, while he tried to beat Morgana at chess. He wasn’t allowed to cheat, and therefore Morgana liked to verse against him, because in light of this Merlin’s go-to method was to try moves just for the hell of it. It made him a very unpredictable opponent.

“I see what you’re doing,” said Morgana, and Gwen glanced over at their game. She had initially tried to help Merlin by pointing out various strategies to him, but they had not been deemed useful. She now sat with her sewing in her lap, and every so often Morgana would see her bite her lip to keep from giving either of them hints (for Gwen was very good at chess). “You want my knight.”

“Damn,” said Merlin, under his breath, and frowned down at the board. Morgana had limited options, at this point, and decided to sacrifice her knight, even though it would place her castle in jeopardy. Merlin scrunched up his face.

“Um,” he said, and rather than taking her knight with his queen, as had obviously been his plan, he instead moved the queen to an altogether different place. Morgana’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Why on earth did you do that?” she demanded, and tried to see if he was somehow double-bluffing her, because his queen was now up for the taking. Merlin shrugged.

“You figured out my plan!”

“So rather than play into it you’re giving up your queen?”

“I—yeah? Maybe?”

Morgana chanced a glance at Gwen, wondering if a vein would be pulsing in her forehead. It wasn’t, but her stitches were now very aggressive, and she seemed determined to avoid her gaze.

“You’re a wonder, Merlin,” said Morgana, and then went on to utterly thrash him.

That had been two days ago, before Merlin and Arthur (and a group of knights) set out on their journey. Morgana and Gwen had seen them off by waving from Morgana’s window; Merlin’s tiny figure had waved back, and then they’d seen Arthur try to shove him off his horse, because he was a twat. So now it was just them.

The thing about Merlin coming to Camelot was that there seemed to have been rather more magical threats entering the kingdom since he’d arrived. Obviously this was more of a convergence-thing than a Merlin-thing, but Morgana and Gwen had gotten a bit used to it, and with him away and no magical threat about, they felt a bit at a loss as to what to do with themselves.

“What did we do before he came here?” asked Gwen, one afternoon, when both of them had tried and failed to find something worth occupying them. The castle was having a bit of a slow day, and Gwen hadn’t been asked to see to anything, which is why she had ended up in Morgana’s chambers; Morgana herself faced the predicament of being too important to be given jobs by the staff, and too unimportant to occupy Uther’s attention. Given that he was the only one that would have felt he possessed the authority to ask her to do something, Morgana was largely being left to her own devices and a bit petulant about the fact.

“Sew, mainly,” she answered, wandering around the room in the hope something would jump out at her. “Pretend the servants needed my instructions as to how to run the household. Go to the market. Visit the lower town.”

“We could always go down there now,” suggested Gwen, but Morgana shook her head.

“There’s no point; I’ve used up this month’s allowance. All that’s left is what’s used to pay the household’s wages.”

She was talking, of course, about when her and Gwen would travel inconspicuously into the poorest parts of town, and help as best they could, by providing food or money to those most in need. Usually they did this as often as possible, but Morgana however had racked up quite the bill in Mercia (what with the silk and the drinks), and thrown her budget a little out of whack. Now there was none to spare until the next month, which would not be for another week.

“Let’s go for a walk, then,” said Gwen, who was trying to keep Morgana from falling into poor spirits, which she did when she felt too cooped-up, or useless. “Get you out of these walls.”

Morgana did not particularly want to wander aimlessly throughout the city, but as she was already wandering aimlessly about her chambers, she supposed she might as well get some fresh air while she did it.

“Alright,” she agreed, with a sigh, and so the two of them journeyed down and out of the castle. They passed the training grounds, and Morgana stared wistfully at the knights practicing their skills (though the two of them still practiced in the forest, Gwen was not quite up to Morgana’s skillset, and they also knew each other’s moves too well now to provide a real challenge). Gwen gently took her arm, and steered her away.

“Perhaps you could ask Uther to allow you to use their facilities?” she asked, tilting her head at her, and Morgana scoffed.

“He’d hardly let me,” she said, bitterly. She was working up to displaying a proper scowl, mouth curled downwards at both ends. “He was the one who stopped letting me play with Arthur.”

Gwen pressed her lips together, feeling unhelpful. “Well, let’s just walk around and sulk, then.”

Morgana let out a little humming noise, and then a sigh. She put her hand on the one Gwen had laid on her arm. “I’m sorry, Gwen. You’re quite right. I’m dreadful company today.”

She patted Gwen’s hand, and avoided her eyes for fear that Gwen would read weakness in them. “You shouldn’t put up with me.”

“It’s alright,” said Gwen, and meant it. “If you want to walk in silence and be moody, I don’t mind. I just wish there was something I could do to cheer you up.”

“You cheer me up,” said Morgana, immediately, and Gwen blushed, ducking her head. She began to protest.

“No,” said Morgana, and pulled them to a stop. “Gwen, really. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“I’m sure there are other capable servants—”

“You know perfectly well that I mean as a friend. You are my dearest friend, Gwen. I would do anything for you.”

“You can’t mean that—”

“I do,” said Morgana, earnestly. “I do, Gwen, believe me. I would let you leave if you wished it. I would grant you— titles, land, whatever you asked. I would make sure you never went without figs another day in your life.”

”Morgana,” whispered Gwen. The grip on her hand was now quite tight, and Gwen felt as though a string had been tied somewhere deep in her belly, and was pulling her up and up, away and off her feet. Morgana’s eyes flicked down to her lips, and Gwen’s breath disappeared with the movement— but they were outside, surrounded by people, and Morgana was still a noblewoman. Gwen could not very well just grab her face and kiss her, regardless of if she would have liked to.

Which she would have. Very much.

“I would never leave you,” said Gwen, and put her free hand on Morgana’s neck. “You know this.”

Under her touch, Morgana smiled. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and breathy— she looked a little dizzy.

“You wouldn’t, would you?” she said, and Gwen shook her head. She wrapped a hand around Gwen’s wrist, stroking her thumb against the skin. “Thank you.”

“Anything, my lady,” said Gwen, and finally withdrew her hands back to herself. “Do you wish to continue walking?”

“No,” said Morgana. “Do you?”

“I wouldn’t mind it,” admitted Gwen, and looked around at her surroundings. “I feel as though I’ve been stuck in the castle, of late. But I can walk you back before continuing.”

“That’s quite unnecessary,” said Morgana, and linked their arms together at the elbow. “We’ll simply carry on.”

***

Morgana’s bad mood persisted for another four days, and try as she might she could not dispel it. She suspected it was to do with her nightmares; they had been getting steadily worse, though she rarely remembered them upon wakening. She felt always as though she had had no sleep at all, and her nights were still filled with intermittent bouts of insomnia; she would drift off for a half hour, an hour at most, but spend the rest of the night half-awake, so that by morning it seemed as though she had been in that state all night. The dark smudges under her eyes were becoming more pronounced.

“Have you been taking the sleeping draught like I told you?” asked Gaius, when she finally went to him about it, inspecting her face.

“Only every night for the past sixteen years,” muttered Morgana, in such a surly tone that it was really the strongest evidence so far that she were secretly related to Arthur. Gaius gave her a look.

“Yes,” she amended. “I always do.”

“Hm,” said Gaius. “And the nightmares?”

Morgana shrugged. She felt exhausted. “Still there. Sometimes they give me a—a feeling? So I always know when I have had one. But I can never really recall details from them.”

“That’s good,” said Gaius, and swilled some things about in his little glass bottles. He handed a new one to Morgana.

“Isn’t there—”

She broke off, looking at the blue liquid in her hand. Morgana knew very little about Gaius, when it came down to it. He had treated her since she was a child, of course, and she trusted him in the sense that he was almost like a parent (or perhaps, more accurately, like a distant uncle, who sent birthday cards that arrived a month late), and also he seemed to be weirdly knowledgeable about magic and the cures for the various threats encountered by the kingdom. Also, she could not forget that he was currently harbouring a sorcerer under Uther’s very nose. She licked her lips.

“Isn’t there—something else, you could give me? _Anything_ else?”

“This is the best remedy I’ve found, my lady.”

“But there must be— an old wives tale, or _something. Please_ , Gaius. I just want to sleep.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Gaius patted her shoulder in pity. “You have my word that I’ll look into it.”

She left feeling slightly disheartened, and that night Gwen went to extra effort to make her feel comfortable; she brought in the softest blankets and hot milk, braided Morgana’s hair loosely down her back, and produced a sprig of lavender from behind her ear, which she then tucked behind Morgana’s own.

“My father said it’s supposed to soothe the mind,” she told her, with a sheepish little smile. Morgana returned it, because she could never help but do so when faced with Gwen’s, and nodded in thanks. “Would you like me to sit with you?”

“I’m not sure what good it will do,” admitted Morgana. “And I should not deprive you of sleep, when I know how terrible it is.”

Gwen kissed her forehead. “Let me stay with you.”

No matter what we might all like to think, the presence of a loved one does not automatically drive away night terrors, and neither did Gwen’s for Morgana. But she stayed with her anyway, humming softly, and Morgana did eventually slip into slumber. Gwen tidied the bedsheets around her sleeping form, tucking her in, but could not bring herself to leave; she gently laid herself down beside Morgana, under one of the blankets, and so it was that when Morgana did eventually wake (and the two times after), it was to see Gwen’s peaceful face next to hers, and this brought her some comfort.

She awoke on the fifth morning in better spirits, even if the reason for this eluded her. She could not have said what made this day so much more pleasing to her than the others, only that where before she had been determined to find all things irritating, she no longer had the wish to. The mind is a funny, fickle thing, after all, and as much of it is still unknown today, so it was even less understood back then. Morgana had merely suffered through some troublesome days, and then emerged into brighter ones, for no explicable reason.

“I want to go for a ride,” she declared, as Gwen slid silk over her arms. “To the meadow, and the old hawthorn tree.”

Gwen smiled at her. “Very good, my lady.”

“Will you accompany me?”

Morgana thought to offer her a picnic; fresh fruits, honey, sweet juices to delight on their tongues, but she resisted. She would bring these things, because they gave her pleasure, but she wished more than anything that Gwen would go with her on the promise of Morgana’s company alone. Gwen, quite naturally, said that she would, because it had never been Morgana’s offerings that she desired, only her sweetness and her smiles, and so their day was arranged.

They set off at noon without telling anybody besides the stableman and Cook, who could not really be excluded from the occasion. Also, somebody had to know where they were should Uther come looking; he did not show it well, but he would have started a war were he of the belief that Morgana was somehow in danger. This was all who knew, however, and thus allowed them the freedom of journeying without eyes feasting on them, and Gwen could ride beside her without comment.

Morgana had loved horse-riding since she had first mounted the animal, and she guided it with skill. Were she able, she would have taken the opportunity to exert this talent in full and really _ride_ , but Gwen was inexpert in her own handling of the beasts, and it would have been unfair. Also, Gwen was intimidated by them, and Morgana did not want to leave her alone and unaided. Still the gentle trot was nice, and the destination not far enough to tire them; they reached the meadow as the sun slipped into the afternoon.

Gwen had brought a blanket, which she spread atop the grass, and Morgana laid out for them a starting meal of meat and crackers and cheese and grapes. They sat together and ate, and talked. One might have thought they had tired of subjects to discuss, given how much time they spent together, but this would have been incorrect. It was much the same sort of thing as how one always has something to tell one’s mother at the end of the day, regardless of how inconsequential it may be, and when eventually the conversation did lull, they sat together in comfortable silence.

Gwen had, without speaking, moved to sit close to Morgana, and was placing poppies throughout her hair, weaving them into her braid. When she had finished Morgana did the same to her in return, and they giggled softly at nothing but the sweet pleasure of being in one another’s company. Morgana tucked a final cornflower behind Gwen’s ear, and let her fingers brush Gwen’s cheek as she removed her hands.

“Beautiful,” she announced, and Gwen smiled. It was a gorgeous smile, her lips pressed together in an attempt to keep it from overtaking her whole face, and her eyes shone.

“The flowers are pretty, here.”

“I was not talking about the flowers.”

Gwen looked away, which confused Morgana. She looked suddenly shy, and also injured, though Morgana thought she had been perfectly clear, and that Gwen had been too. Gwen sighed, and wrung her hands together in her lap.

“You should not say such things,” she said, quietly, her gaze fixed on the sky. The sun glinted on her eyelashes; Morgana wanted to feel them on her cheek. “Not if you do not mean to act on them.”

Morgana blinked at her. “Who says that I don’t?”

“Morgana,” said Gwen, with a rueful smile. “We have had this conversation. You know I care for you, and I know your feelings for me. We would be better to let them lie in silence, than remind each other of what cannot be.”

Morgana swallowed, and fiddled with her skirts. She had not imagined that this was in Gwen’s head. “I am not Arthur,” she said. “I am not—destined for a political match. Indeed I have the luxury that I may never marry, if I do not choose it.”

She reached across and covered Gwen’s hand with her own, though it shook mightily. Her chest was tight, and her throat dry, but she persevered, for the both of them, and leaned down to catch Gwen’s eye. “Gwen, I love you. I have every intention of acting on it, if you’ll have me.”

Gwen stared, and not, Morgana thought, just at her eyes.

“Will you?” Morgana said. “Have me?”

Gwen turned her hand over in Morgana’s, pressing their palms together, her skin warm as always, as everything about her was.

“You need not ask,” she said, leaning forward. Her expression was now quite certain. “I will always have you, Morgana.”

“Gwen,” breathed Morgana, and kissed her.

It was chaste, and did not last very long. It was really only a gentle press of Morgana’s lips to Gwen’s, and then it had to stop because Gwen’s mouth split into a grin, and Morgana would have been left kissing her teeth. She pulled back a little, but would not remove herself very far.

“My lady,” said Gwen, nonsensically, with closed eyes, and Morgana kissed her again, capturing her lips. Gwen tilted her head, and reached to cradle the back of Morgana’s skull in her hand. She slipped her fingers between the strands of Morgana’s braid, and in doing so pulled Morgana towards her, who went willingly, shifting on the blanket and sliding one arm around Gwen’s waist.

They kissed a long time.

It was slow, and lazy, and it felt like a sigh. Morgana could feel the warmth of the sun beating down upon her, and underneath her the warmth and love of Gwen’s body, which seeped into her like honey, filling Morgana with a golden light. She kissed Gwen’s lips, and then, pulling back, the corner of her mouth, and her cheek, and the bridge of her nose. She kissed her eyebrow, and Gwen’s laugh, and the spot where her jaw met her neck. When she stopped, Gwen glowed like the sun, and budding flowers bloomed around them.

She grasped Morgana’s hand.

“My lady,” she said again, and on Gwen’s lips it was an endearment. She smoothed down the hair behind Morgana’s ear, and cupped her jaw, and Morgana said;

“Let’s go to the tree.”

The hawthorn Morgana spoke of had been discovered by her and Arthur when they were children; him eight, and her eleven. It was older than the kingdom itself, from the time of magic, and their allowance to play in it as youngins was a greater gift than either of them knew. Arthur had lost interest with age, but for Morgana the route to the tree was ever present in her mind, and she went there often after her father’s death, to lay her hand upon its trunk and imagine she could feel the life ebbing within it. There was a time when she had whispered stories against the bark, treated it as a sort of diary, and though her visits had lessened as she grew older it still held a special place in her heart; a place of comfort, and safety. She had taken Gwen to it at sixteen, and feared being laughed at, but Gwen had touched it’s leaves, and thanked her. They had then visited it many a time over the years, commonly at the beginning of spring, and they went there again now.

For those familiar with the superstitions, please forgive us for giving a short explanation. Morgana’s tree was a faerie tree, a gateway to the world of the Tuatha Dé Danann — the Sidhe, as they had become known in the common tongue. Morgana and Gwen, if you recall, had already encountered them, and unfortunately stumbled upon some bad eggs, but they were not all like this; in days of old they had been a legendary race, cast out by the Milesians, and left to wither without offerings or affection, until they became lost to all but the druids, and the curious children who climbed their trees.

They were hushed as they entered the wood, having left their things in the meadow with the horses, bar the flowers Gwen carried. They did, however, hold hands, and had done since Gwen had helped Morgana to her feet; Morgana kept glancing down at them, and grinning, and she knew Gwen was doing the same.

The tree was where it always was when Morgana wished to visit it, marked by its ring of stones and fabric tied to the branches. Her and Gwen laid their hands upon the trunk, breathed in and out, and the magic flowed around them. The flowers were placed at the base of the tree, as a gift.

“Still here,” said Gwen, softly, and reached into her apron pocket to withdraw a pocket knife. She held the tie of her apron with one hand, folded it over the blade, and cut it a hands’ length from the end. Morgana meanwhile pulled her braid over her shoulder, and removed the deep purple ribbon from the end of it.

There were many tokens attached to the tree’s branches, no small number of which had been placed there by Morgana and Gwen over the years, but Morgana’s stood out by the quality of the silk, which was unlike any of the others. They tied their new offerings to a branch, next to one another as always, in the hope of good luck and fortune, and Morgana inclined her head.

“For us,” she said, softly, and Gwen stroked her thumb against the back of her hand.

“For us,” she repeated.

And so Morgana and Gwen marked the change of their relationship, in this way and later through others (which we should best leave to them and Morgana’s bed, and not pry into, except maybe to say that they found it very enjoyable, and smiled throughout), and in the future it brought them both comfort to picture these remnants of themselves, floating and twisting delicately in the breeze, together even in times of trouble, and to know they would come out alright in the end, their fates twined together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	12. A Knight is Honourable, and, Er... Well... Maybe Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Excalibur business is dealt with. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact! this is the point in my writing where i started reading some of the legends, beginning of course with my girl morgan le fay. this is based off a legit legend, which is hysterical to me

Merlin had had a fantastic time in Mercia, all things considered. He had never been to anywhere except Ealdor and Camelot, and since one of these was the village in which he had grown up and the other one he had spent most of his time looking over his shoulder, Mercia was fascinating. Bayard’s castle itself was boring (once you’d seen and scrubbed the floors of one castle then you had, in Merlin’s opinion, seen and scrubbed them all) but he had spent more than one day in the town with Morgana and Gwen, trailing after them while they gushed over silks and each other, and it had been quite unlike Camelot. Arthur had even given him an afternoon off, which Merlin had spent simply wandering and meeting people, and of course there had been the infamous tavern excursion. All around he’d had a positively splendid time.

We tell you this because Merlin and Arthur had managed to get themselves into a spot of bother, and were decidedly _not_ , at this moment, having a splendid time, and we don’t want you to think that these unpleasant adventures took up all of Merlin’s life, because they did not. Usually things went quite well. Yes, there was the occasional bandit attack, or attack by somebody trying to kill Arthur, but these were, proportionally, not that common. They just seemed to stick in the memory longer than trips when the most eventful thing was Arthur hopping about in only one boot, while Merlin ran about with the other one, pretending not to hear his yells.

This adventure, which should not even have strictly speaking _been_ an adventure, just an ordinary patrol, had gone rather horribly wrong, in an entirely preventable way.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” said Merlin, and noisily rattled the chains around his wrists, “That if the colloquial name for a place is ‘The Ambush Tower’, then maybe it would be smarter _not_ to go by it, in the future.”

“Merlin,” said Arthur, who was quite fed up already about being tossed in a dungeon, and not having his _do-you-know-who-I-am-_ s listened to, “Shut up.”

“No,” said Merlin, and tried to kick at him. This could not be accomplished, unfortunately, because he was too far away and Arthur was therefore out of reach. “I _told_ you this was a bad idea—”

“Yes, I know, because you won’t stop _talking_ about it,” snapped Arthur. He was trying fruitlessly to get out of his own chains, and Merlin was debating whether he would notice or not if he cast a quick spell to help him out. “Now will somebody _please_ tell me what the _hell_ is going on?”

He addressed this part to the two-dozen other knights or so who were locked up with them, only five of which were actually Arthur’s men. They were all looking rather badly off, and in fact the only thing that tipped Merlin off that they _were_ knights was their armour, because they did not look anything like the strapping young men Merlin thought of when he thought _knights_ , not in the least.

(Admittedly, Merlin possibly had a skewed view of exactly how dashing a knight should be, given that the first one to mind was Arthur, and then Lancelot. But no matter).

“You’ll find out,” croaked one of them, which was decidedly not encouraging.

“Brilliant,” said Arthur, and Merlin was reassured to hear the bitchy tone of his voice, because it meant Arthur wasn’t worried. It potentially meant that Arthur was going to snark at the wrong person and get them in even more trouble, but one has to pick their battles, and right now Merlin would gladly take Arthur’s unkillable arrogance if it got them out of there. 

They had to wait a while before ‘finding out’, and during this time Merlin got less and less afraid, and more and more annoyed, because the straw he was sitting on was damp, and his bum had gone numb.

“I wonder what Morgana and Gwen are doing,” said Merlin, at one point, sulking. “I bet _they’re_ not stuck in a nasty, smelly dungeon. I bet _Morgana_ would have listened to me if I told her not to go and get ambushed at the _Ambush Tower_.”

“If you don’t _shut up_ about Morgana,” groaned Arthur, but could not come up with a decent enough threat.

“You’ll what? You can’t do anything, can you, ‘cause you’re chained to a bloody wall. Whose fault is that?”

“I’ll throw you in the stocks.”  
  
“Have to get out of here, first,” said Merlin, almost cheerfully. “Got any big plans?”

Arthur scowled at him. “I’ve been too busy talking to _you_ to think of any.”

“Huh,” said Merlin. “I would’ve thought for sure a head that big could hold two thoughts at once.”

“ _Merlin_ ,” growled Arthur, except really he sounded almost impressed, but whatever retort he had died on his tongue, because at that moment the dungeon door opened, and a woman stepped in.

“Who here will take up the challenge?” she asked, and they sat there with wide eyes, in silence. Arthur cleared his throat.

“What is the challenge, exactly?”

The challenge was detailed to them, and Merlin could not believe what he was hearing. As it turned out, the reason he was currently chained up, in a place called Ambush Tower, with a host of other ambushed knights, was because somebody had built it specifically for the purpose of ambushing knights, in the hope of finding themselves a champion. That anyone would go to such convoluted lengths for a decade long rivalry seemed ridiculous to him, but such was the way of greed, he supposed.

The somebody in question was Sir Damas, who was not all that great of a guy. Twelve years ago he had cheated his brother out of his inheritance, and yet in spite of this gone on to be less successful, and he was now mad about the fact. He had demanded that his brother (a Sir Ontzlake) give him a portion of his wealth, and they had agreed to battle over it, but Sir Damas, upon realising that Ontzlake’s soldiers and weapons out-massed his own, had quickly changed his mind to duel in single combat. Then he had remembered that he was not an expert swordsman like Sir Ontzlake, and weaselled out of that agreement, too.

Ontzlake, who had gotten pretty annoyed with these negotiations, had decided to go about his business as usual, and if Damas eventually uncovered a knight who would champion for him, then they would duel, and until then he would go about pretending Damas did not exist. So Damas had set up the tower, and spent the last six months kidnapping knights to try and convince them to fight in his name (this was, incidentally, the whole reason Arthur was there, if you recall). Nobody had taken it up, because they were an honourable lot and fighting for Damas would have offended their sensibilities, even though doing so would have meant all of their release.

“This is ridiculous,” said Arthur, when the woman had finished detailing this, and Merlin silently agreed. “I’ll do it.”

“Sire,” protested one of his knights, but Arthur had already stood up. No, fighting for Sir Damas was not honourable, but Arthur was the prince and did not have time to be imprisoned out of pettiness. Also, he was the _prince_ , and could simply demand that Sir Damas forgo his claim once Arthur had won the duel. Then it would not be so bad.

It was settled, immediately (Sir Damas was, after six months of failure, really quite thrilled with the recent development), and word was sent to the brother, and Arthur was allowed to be released and transported to the battle ground, which in this instance was a field outside the tower. Merlin was allowed to come too, at Arthur’s request, and they complained at the idiocy the whole way from the dungeon, like boys receiving Saturday detentions.

“Do you think,” hedged Merlin, right before the duel, as he was fiddling with the buckles on Arthur’s wrist guards, “that you should be a bit more worried than you are now?”

“I can handle whatever champion of this Sir Ontzlake,” scoffed Arthur, and Merlin could see that he believed it. “I’m the best swordsman in Camelot.”

“And it’s biggest prat,” said Merlin, so he did not say something else. He was rather nervous, because the woman who had come to get them from the dungeon had set herself up to watch the fight, and there was something, quite frankly, spooky about her.

“Excellent pep talk, Merlin,” said Arthur, and grinned at him. With one last tug of Arthur’s chest plate, Merlin decided that it was, actually, sitting where it needed to, and that Arthur was battle ready, even though he was not particularly thrilled about this prospect.

“Just be careful,” he said, and Arthur’s blind conviction became slightly less obnoxious, and he softened a bit.

“Don’t be a girl, Merlin,” he said, but not unkindly. “I’ll be fine.”

“Whatever you say, sire,” said Merlin, with a raise of his eyebrows that indicated he expected to be saving Arthur’s arse with a bit of timely magic, as was usual, and then Arthur was off.

It was not very officially done, and not at all like the duels Merlin had seen in Camelot. There was no stadium, for one, and the atmosphere was different. Actually, it is closest to say that it was bit like two groups of drunk and rowdy men gearing up for a fight on a Friday night, for no other reason other than being bored. There was admittedly less swearing, because everyone was pretending to be a man of honour, but the vibe was the same. Merlin bit his thumbnail.

He needn’t have worried; Arthur _was_ , as we all know, very good with a sword, and the knight chosen by Sir Ontzlake, while he tried his best, was really no match for him when it came down to it. Arthur was also not cold-hearted, either, and spared him even though the duel was to the death. After this was all done he also got to release all his pent up frustration at being forced into this farce by revealing that he was in fact the king’s son, which shut everybody up for a good thirty seconds.

The woman from the dungeon came up to them only after Arthur had been assured he was free to go, and that his knights (and the others who had been captured) would be released at once, as a thank you. Merlin felt the back of his neck prickle, not in warning (well, maybe), but in recognition that she was of magical being. She smiled up at Arthur.

“Arthur Pendragon,” she greeted. She was fair, and had long golden hair that hung down her back; her eyes were green. “You fought well.”

Arthur inclined his head at her. Probably he was too thick to know whether to regard her as threat or beauty, or so Merlin thought. She continued without waiting for an answer, and her voice was like birds singing.

“The time is soon coming when you will have need of my gifts,” she said. “Already the sword makes its way to you. When you possess it, you may come to me, and I shall grant you a favour.”

Arthur blinked at her. “What sword is this?”

“The blade forged in the dragon’s breath,” she answered, and Merlin started. Luckily Arthur did not notice. “It is but half of what you are to be given. Rest assured that you will find me, when the time is right.”

“What’s your name?” asked Arthur, curiously, and the woman smiled.

“Viviane, my king,” she said. “Of the lake.”

And so it was that Arthur (and Merlin, because he was there too) had their second encounter with one of the Ladies, capital L, who as Viviane said hailed from the lake. Which lake is up for discussion, because she did not specify, but you should be aware there were actually four of them, and they had already met one, which was the sorceress Nimeuh. Nimeuh was what we might call the black sheep of the four, given how hellbent she was on killing Uther, and the fact that the Ladies of the Lake were supposed to be rather ambivalent when they were not lying in ponds and distributing swords as a basis for a system of government.

“A pleasure,” said Arthur, after a beat, because he had been taught to treat women with respect, even when they were strange and talked nonsense.

As such they were allowed to get on with it, and travel back to Camelot, where Arthur would inform his father that they had found the missing knights, and also had some paperwork regarding two estates to settle (we can only assume this job was delegated down the ladder). Merlin got to have a bit of a shock when the Black Knight showed up a few weeks later and he had to get the dragon to sneeze on one of Gwen’s father’s best swords, and then after a mix-up which was really not his fault (honestly!), he thought he better heed Viviane’s words, and chuck the thing in the lake.

Unfortunately Merlin chose the wrong one, but really it was her own fault for not being more clear. The situation would probably work itself out, though. Eventually. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur is a bitch and we (me and merlin) like him _so. much._


	13. Ealdor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur manages to not be a tosser. No, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you hadn’t guessed, this is my favourite and objectively the best episode of merlin. i actually struggled writing a companion piece to it because i really do think it’s just a wonderful episode that can’t really be improved upon… so for your reference, everything between merlin and arthur happens the same way, and honestly you might as well just rewatch it, really

The Ealdor business marked a turning point for Merlin and Arthur: they had been getting along rather well, as it happened (if you consider constantly insulting and mocking one another getting along, which they did), and even though Arthur had saved Merlin’s life with the flower all those months ago, it was the agreeing to help out Merlin’s mother that really sealed the deal on their friendship. Like with everything else when it came to them, they obviously did not talk about this change, but it was there all the same. For our part, however, we will focus on Morgana and Gwen, who were less inclined to keep to the subtext, and therefore a bit more interesting to talk about.

If you recall, we left them having finally crossed the barrier from no-kissing (on the lips; they had of course managed just about every other easily accessible body part), to quite-a-lot-of-kissing, and they had also by now ticked off some of those less easily accessible areas. They were very happy with one another, and with life itself.

They had returned from their picnic all flushed cheeks and smiles, and dilly-dallied about one another for quite some time, neither one wanting to point out that it was supposed to be Gwen’s night off, but also feeling as though they could do with some alone time, to do such embarrassing things as squeal into pillows. Gwen walked with Morgana back to her rooms.

“Will you be needing anything else of me this evening, my lady?” she asked, and Morgana smiled down at her feet.

“No, that’s quite alright, you can go home. Thank you, Gwen.”

Gwen did a small curtsey. They were taking refuge in their stations, rather than dance about in the uncertainty of their new situation, but Gwen still had to bite her lip to try and hide her grin. Morgana thought she was positively lovely.

“Very well. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Gwen—”

Morgana caught her hand, and then panicked a bit, having not really planned on doing so. She turned it over in her own, and then quickly, nervously, pressed a kiss to it. Gwen went very red.

“Till tomorrow,” said Morgana, and Gwen had nodded, and scurried off. What had followed was a very awkward morning, in which they tried very hard not to be awkward, and to behave as if nothing was different (which it was not, really), and this continued up until Morgana had sat through one of Uther’s counsel sessions and done nothing but think of Gwen, at which point she ran about the castle searching for her, and dragged her into the nearest alcove.

“ _Morgana_ ,” giggled Gwen, against her lips, but she had slipped her hands around Morgana’s neck instantly, so Morgana did not think she really minded.

“I missed you,” Morgana said, and Gwen flushed, and this had then informed the ridiculously lovey-dovey manner they went about in for the foreseeable future, at least when they were alone together. To the outside world not a lot had changed, except that the Lady Morgana looked livelier, and the circles beneath her eyes were less noticeable when paired with her delightful smile, and she wore this constantly.

“You’re in a good mood,” Arthur had commented, when he and Merlin got back, and Morgana had patted his cheek in affection. She had not even heard about Ambush Tower yet.

“Must’ve been the reprieve from talking to you every day,” she’d said, but too nicely for Arthur to regard it as anything but suspicious. Her and Gwen went about their usual duties, and if any of Morgana’s other maids noticed that their ankles touched under the table when they were doing their sewing, nobody said anything because they were all discreet, and liked Morgana a lot, and since such generous mistresses were hard to come by, they thought it was really none of their business.

This brings us to the present, in which Merlin’s mother had arrived in Camelot, and begged an audience with the king. Unfortunately for her, and for Ealdor, and of course for poor old Will, Uther was not exactly keen on sending some of his (very fine) knights to help a village in Cenred’s kingdom when he had no personal stake in the matter, and denied this request. Morgana, after escorting Hunith out of the court and into Merlin’s care, almost immediately descended into shouting about it, flinging retorts about justice while her hands shook from rage, and she continued until Gwen caught her by the arms, and pulled her to a stop.

“Morgana,” she said, and looked into her eyes. She could see Morgana’s outrage and her determination splashed across her features, and felt such a flood of warmth that it was a wonder she wasn’t knocked to the ground by its force. “You already know what we’re going to do.”

Morgana looked at her, and relaxed slightly under her touch. She took a deep breath. “And what’s that?”

Gwen tilted her head at her, as if it were obvious. “Help, of course.”

The words caused Morgana’s face to split into a smile, and she nodded, running her tongue over her teeth, and Gwen could see the plan already formulating behind her eyes. “You’re right. Oh, Gwen. Merlin will be going with her, I’m sure of it— can you see to it that he gets some armour? I’ll procure us some horses, and food, and you should bring your sword, if you wish. We’ll set off before dusk.”

So it was that Merlin was wrangled down to Gwen’s house, and given what he pronounced a very swordy sword, and also some armour Gwen’s father had crafted for an order (which would now have to be set back, but Morgana paid for it handsomely, and Tom was a good man in favour of good causes, and was not disagreeable to lending it), and then he got a bit choked up when Morgana arrived in her training gear and announced they would be coming with him.

“You’re going to need all the help you can get,” said Gwen. “I can mend armour, and sharpen swords—”

“—and we both know how to fight,” continued Morgana, with a soft smile. The two of them had already become that couple who were always on the same page, and frankly a bit maddening to be around. Really Merlin was just getting a taste of what it was like to be around him and Arthur, but still.

“But,” said Merlin, and he looked genuinely lost, bless him. “You can’t, I mean—why would you?”

Gwen touched his arm. “If it was the other way round, you’d help us. You already have.”

Merlin got a bit flustered, and Gwen felt as though she had possibly never had such a dear, sweet friend, and she hugged him fiercely. Merlin hesitated, and then patted her on the back, in a way that suggested he was taking tips about displaying his feelings from Arthur, which he really, _really_ should not have been.

“I…,” he began, when she pulled away, shaking his head. “Thanks, Gwen.”

She squeezed his shoulders. “Anything, Merlin.”

So they set off, and it was actually very nice, given the circumstances, and although riding in haste did not exactly lend itself to good conversation, she talked with Hunith enough to think that she knew exactly where Merlin got his goodness from, and to also get the impression that she was one of the kindest, most trusting women she’d ever met. Gwen was not stupid, however. She knew that where they were going was dangerous, and that her skills with a sword, if they were to be drawn upon, were probably not going to last very long. She tried to put this out of her mind, but she suspected Morgana could tell she was nervous; she touched her often in passing once they had made camp, to comfort her, and sat close enough that their thighs pressed together.

“You’re scared,” said Morgana, without preamble, when Merlin was collecting firewood and Hunith tending to her horse. Gwen did not deny it, but wrapped her hands around her knees.

“A little,” admitted Gwen. “It’s just— I’m not a knight, you know. Or you. I’m not— brave.”

“You are the bravest person I’ve ever known.” Morgana’s voice was steadfast, and Gwen looked at her in surprise, breath catching. Her gaze was firm. “You are brave and strong and wise, and all the things that are right with this world.”

Gwen unstuck her throat. “I’m not…”

“You are to me,” said Morgana, and Gwen could not say anything to that. “Here.”

She handed Gwen a piece of silk, folded into four, and Gwen did not think she was imagining that her cheeks reddened.

“You are as brave as any knight,” she said, “And… I believe I once said that all knights should have a lady’s favour.”

“You did,” said Gwen, and looked down at the fabric. Morgana did the same.

“Well,” she said, “I thought you’d better have one.”

Carefully Gwen unfolded the silk. In her hands was a square handkerchief, not unlike the one Gwen had made for Morgana all those months ago, however where Gwen was rather good at the embroidery business, Morgana was abysmal and always had been. The clumsily stitched letter G was not centred as it should be, and the silk peeked through where her stitches were not aligned, and although she had tried to make a heart in the opposite corner, it looked… very much not like a heart. Overall the workmanship was no match for the fine quality of the fabric, or the thread, but Gwen instantly thought it the most charming thing she’d ever owned.

“I know it’s not very good,” started Morgana, when Gwen had failed to say anything, and then Gwen took her face in her hands and kissed the look of faltering fortitude right off her.

“It’s perfect,” said Gwen when she pulled back, and stroked Morgana’s cheeks, resting their foreheads together. “I love you.”

Morgana smiled. “Thank goodness for that,” she teased, and then:

“Oh,” said Merlin’s voice, and the two of them jumped apart, turning red. He was holding his firewood, and looked very embarrassed, and rather like he would have preferred to catch them doing literally anything else. A log dropped to the ground. “Sorry! Or, well, I mean, it’s a free forest, and you knew I was coming back, so it’s, um, not really my fault, but… sorry.”

Morgana straightened up.

“It’s quite alright, Merlin,” she said, a bit haughtily, and then Merlin caught Gwen’s eye, and they understood each other, and Gwen felt a grin split across her face to rival his own. They had the sort of understanding that really only came about from being of the same station, and fawning over Lancelot that one time, and she knew instantly that he was as happy for them as he would have been for himself, and also that she was about to cop some flak for not letting him in on the secret earlier.

Merlin sat down, and busied himself with the fire.

“So, how long’s this been going on?” he asked, a bit cheekily, and Gwen shot him a look.

“Long enough that we can talk about it later. _Later_ ,” she repeated, as he opened his mouth again, because although she _did_ want to talk with him about it, she did not exactly want to do so when the subject of conversation was present. She also knew that Merlin was going to want to tease her by asking if Morgana was a good kisser, and Gwen was fairly sure that if he did that now then she would push him into the fire, and probably not be all that sorry for it.

Merlin, because he was a nice boy, and maybe because his mum was near and would see if he made fun of two ladies, let it drop. They then went to bed for the night, and when they awoke it was to discover that Arthur had joined them, and Morgana was so proud of him that she forgot herself for a moment, and hugged him.

“Arthur!” she cried, in delight, and threw her arms around him. Arthur patted her on the back with one hand, going a little pink.

“Hello, Morgana,” he said, and extricated himself. He tried to duck away from the pride in her eyes, but couldn’t. He shrugged a little, and explained: “I couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

So the four of them were together again, and they rode the rest of the way to Ealdor in trepidation, but altogether glad that they were not alone, and were among friends. Ealdor itself was, Morgana assumed, probably quite a nice place to be when they were not being tormented by raiders, and for her it was also an interesting taste of what it was like to live in such a place, where one had to haul their own weight. She did not mind doing this, exactly (it was very easy to volunteer to wash dishes and prepare food when she was doing it with Gwen), but it was still different.

The villagers were determined to fight, and protect their home, but Morgana could tell (and she knew, also, that Arthur refused to acknowledge it) that it would not be enough. Their fighting styles were clumsy, and they had no proper weapons, only brooms and pitchforks, and maybe an axe that had never done anything more than kill a cow. Her and Gwen had been relegated to scrounging these weapons up, and bettering upon them best they could, when really they would have been much better served helping teach the villagers.

“Men aren’t the only ones who can fight,” said Gwen, and turned her sword over in her hands, contemplating it. Morgana was so in love with her it was ridiculous.

They did the best they could with what they had, and Morgana tried to convince herself that perhaps they would have a fighting chance after all, if they could keep the morale up, and it was easy to put on this façade in front of Merlin and Hunith, and act as though all would be well, but harder when it was just her and Gwen, alone in the dark.

“We don’t stand a chance,” murmured Gwen, massaging Morgana’s hands between her own. They were curled under one of Hunith’s blankets, entwined together for warmth and with their furs pulled up to their chins, and there was just enough moonlight that it fell along Gwen’s cheek and jaw, allowing Morgana to make out her face.

“Arthur can’t see that,” she whispered back, watching the shadows of her features. “He’s too stubborn.”

“Why do you think he came here?”

“The same reason we did,” said Morgana, the ghost of a grin crossing her face. “For Merlin.”

She disentangled one of her hands from Gwen’s, and shifted, brushing some of the hair away from Gwen’s face. Her fingers lingered on her cheekbone, and she could not quite bring herself to pull away. “Arthur may act like he doesn’t care, but he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.”

“Careful,” whispered Gwen. “That was almost a compliment.”

Morgana laughed, stopping herself from being too loud by turning her head into the pillow. Gwen smiled at her, and pulled her hand to her lips, kissing Morgana’s knuckles.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” she asked. “Not do anything stupid?”

“When have _I_ ever done anything stupid?”

“Recklessly heroic, then.”

“If you’ll promise me the same,” said Morgana, smiling. Gwen leaned forward and kissed her in answer, and Morgana slipped her hand round from Gwen’s cheek to cup the back of her neck, then shifted her weight so she could pull her closer. She propped herself on her elbow to reach her better, and allowed her tongue to slip into Gwen’s mouth, where it was received (not to brag) quite enthusiastically. Someone somewhere to Morgana’s left rolled very noisily about in their bedroll, and they both froze.

“Arthur?” dared Morgana, in a whisper, withdrawing from Gwen slightly. There was a hush.

“Not exactly?”

“ _Merlin!_ ” she hissed, and in one smooth motion whipped her pillow from beneath her and threw it in his general direction. There was a satisfying thump. “Didn’t anyone tell you it was rude to eavesdrop?”

“I’m not!” protested Merlin, weakly. She couldn’t see him, but she could picture the expression on his face. “I’m right here, it’s not my fault you two can’t get a room!”

Morgana spluttered. Gwen had covered her mouth to keep from laughing, but now some escaped her, and she reached behind her to take Morgana’s pillow from him, since she was closer, although how she knew he was holding it out escaped Morgana.

“Oh, it is a little funny,” she said, apparently also sensing that Morgana was still rather offended, and put the pillow back where it belonged. Morgana huffed.

“Get some sleep, Merlin,” she said, and, embarrassed, rolled over so her back was to Gwen. She felt Gwen roll her eyes, and then soon enough an arm slipped around Morgana’s waist, then found her hand and twined their fingers together.

“Don’t get in a strop,” Gwen muttered against her neck, and squeezed her hand. “It’s only Merlin.”

Morgana did not answer her, but it was alright, because she knew Gwen wouldn’t mind, and would know it was just out of self-consciousness. She squeezed her hand back, and let Gwen’s hold lull her to sleep.

***

The morning, somehow, brought worse news. Morgana had thought their luck had been bad before, what with the meagre excuses for weapons and not enough fighting bodies, but it had now tripled; Matthew, the man Arthur had sent as lookout for Kanen and his men, had been killed, and sent back to Ealdor with an arrow in his back, complete with an ominous note about their imminent doom.

Morgana thought this last was a bit overdramatic, but no matter. The point was that it had riled Merlin’s friend up, and he had shouted at Arthur, and if Morgana was feeling guilty over the man’s death, then she knew Arthur felt it tenfold. She found him sitting on Hunith’s doorstep, brooding. She nudged him with the tip of his sword, in the shoulder. Arthur didn’t look up.

“Here,” she said, and held the sword and sharpener out to him. “It’ll give you something to do with your hands.”

Arthur glanced up, first at her and then at what she was offering. His mouth pulled to one side, and he took them from her, striking the whetstone along the blade with more force than was really necessary. She tutted.

“Don’t let Gwen see you do that,” she said, and raised her hand. She was going to pat him on the shoulder, but the sword was too in the way for her to do it comfortably, and in the end she settled on resting her hand on his head, which was (she admitted) a bit unusual. Arthur stilled, and after a second or two she removed her hand.

“It’ll be alright, Arthur,” she said, and looked at the wall of Hunith’s house so they did not have to look each other in the eye. “I have faith.”

Then she left him alone, and the day progressed into night, and night into dawn, and dawn into day. Arthur’s plan to cut off the raiders was a good one; they had constructed crude gates to trap them once they entered the village, restricting their mobility and diminishing somewhat the advantage given to them by their horses. They would also be making use of fire, which Morgana was set to light, and the plan was decidedly not half-baked, after all. There was always Merlin, also, who could probably help them out in a pinch.

“Light, you stupid thing,” cursed Morgana, and struck the flint once more. She had been instructed to do it as soon as the attackers entered and the gates were drawn, and she was _trying_ , but the flame would not catch, and she was running out of time, because the plan hinged on this. Her breath quickened, and she struck the flint more urgently.

Summoning flowers she could do, after much practice and labour on her part. Summoning visions of the future had never given her any trouble. Transferring some of her magical energy to Merlin she could _also_ do, but neither of them had yet figured this out. She had not, however, _practiced_ magic in the traditional sense of the term, because as much as she liked Merlin she didn’t want to be walking around with her _own_ wanted sign pinned to her back, and the prospect of having magic herself terrified her. She whipped her head around, trying to catch sight of the raiders, and then turned back to the fire, a terrible feeling that it was now or never, and that if she didn’t get this blasted thing to work then all her friends were going to die.

 _It will light_ , thought Morgana, and allowed herself to know it as fact when she struck the flint once more. The flame caught, and she gasped.

Merlin was suddenly in front of her, and he was staring her in the eyes, looking stunned. He must have realised she could not light it, and come to help, but it had turned out to be unnecessary. His feet skidded on the dirt, and he was gasping.

“Morgana,” he said, and grabbed her shoulders roughly, pulling her to her feet. “We need to move.”

As if to punctuate this point, an arrow flew right above Morgana’s head; she shoved Merlin down and to the side, out of the way, and they ran half-crouched to join the fight. Morgana’s head felt cloudy, but there was no time to consider the reason for it; she twirled her sword in her hand, a reassuring movement to familiarise herself with the grip, and struck at the first raider she came across, felling him from his horse.

The fight was a difficult one to relay; it was a mess of confusion, and what was really a desperate scramble, to be honest, and Morgana acted instinctively, without thinking. A sense of calm seemed to overtake her, though it was not really a calm, but a sharpening of the survival senses. She sliced at her opponent and he dropped to the ground, giving her a brief respite which she used to look around her, and in which she saw Gwen.

Gwen was holding her own, and she would have been alright, but Morgana had never seen her in danger before, and she loved her, so she freaked out a little, and ran in haste towards her. She leaped over a cart, sword in hand, and cut the raider facing Gwen before he knew she was there, stepping over his body to grip her arm.

“Are you alright?” demanded Morgana. Gwen looked a bit dazed, staring at Morgana as if she were a vision. “Gwen?”

Gwen nodded, then collapsed in Morgana’s general direction, wrapping her in an embrace. Morgana hugged her back, their swords hanging loosely at their sides, heedless entirely of the fact the fight was still going on, because there were more important things, such as Gwen’s buckling knees.

“There’s a time and a bloody place,” yelled Arthur, from some distance away, and even though neither of them actually heard him, they pulled away from each other quicksmart, because there was, in fact, a time and a bloody place, and this was neither. Gwen had just gotten a bit overwhelmed, you understand.

The brief distraction did, however, allow Morgana a moment of clarity, in that it afterwards required her to reacquaint herself with her surroundings and what was happening in them, where it became apparent quite quickly that they were losing, and badly. On all sides the raiders overpowered them through virtue of better skill, better weaponry and better numbers; it was, in short, looking dismal. Luckily this sort of last-minute stand was where Merlin did his best work.

The wind started slowly at first, picking up straw and twigs around their feet, and then increased in intensity, so that it was all Morgana and Gwen could do to stay standing; Morgana flung her arm out towards Gwen, who grabbed it, and hand in hand they staggered to a stable fixture (it was a fence) and hung on for dear life, faces screwed up in an attempt to protect their eyes.

It raged for a minute, maybe more, but then it was done. The gale disappeared as instantly as it had arrived, and suddenly Morgana could see again, and did not need to clutch at a bit of wood. The raiders were retreating, and so the two girls struggled to their feet, looking at each other, and gasping.

“Merlin,” managed Gwen, breathlessly, and then a huge smile overtook her face, relief shining through her features. She hesitated, then grabbed the collar of Morgana’s tunic, hauled her in, and kissed her full on the mouth. Morgana grinned against her lips, ran her hands all over Gwen’s body (ostensibly to check for injuries), and then pulled back, and kissed her once more.

It would have been too much, though, for the success to have been total. Kanen was a cockroach in the sense that he was a horrible, evil little thing, and also in the sense that he proved very difficult to kill. They had thought him done with, impaled on Arthur’s sword, but he made one last ditch attempt on Arthur’s life, via a crossbow, and the next thing anybody knew the arrow had embedded itself not in Arthur, but in Will.

“Arthur,” said Morgana, later, sidling up to him as he watched the villagers arrange the necessary preparations for Will’s body to be burned. By some stroke of luck (cruel though it was), Arthur had completely missed the origin of the hurricane; from his vantage point he had seen only Merlin and Will, side by side, and the gust swirling in front of them.

Will, with an arrow sticking out of his chest and knowing he was not going to be around long enough to suffer the consequences, had taken the blame.

Now he was dead.

Arthur grunted at her. Morgana balled her hands in the fabric of her cloak, her eyes on Merlin, who was stacking logs with shaking hands. She suspected that was where Arthur’s gaze lay, also, but if he experienced the same heartbreak she felt, he didn’t show it.

“Do you think you could not be an arse about this?” asked Morgana, lowly, even though Arthur (by all appearance’s sake) ignored her. “Merlin’s just lost his best friend, he doesn’t need you to shove your hatred of magic in his face.”

Arthur made a noise in the back of his throat. “He lied to me, Morgana. He knows how dangerous sorcery is. He shouldn’t have kept it from me.”

“And what would you have done?” asked Morgana, turning towards him. She didn’t bother to hide her anger; better to let it escape through her (who had little at stake) than through Merlin. “Carried out your father’s wishes? Executed Will on the spot?”

Arthur blanched, but it was subtle. His voice was very flat. “Keep out of it, Morgana.”

“No. So what if Will was a sorcerer? It’s not as if he can harm you now. But Merlin is your _friend_ , you could at least put his interests above your own, for once. Will saved your life.”

“He’s getting a burial,” said Arthur, and Morgana, for an instant, hated him.

“And that’s enough, is it? You’re despicable, Arthur. I’m used to this from your father, I never thought I’d see it from _you_.”

Arthur rounded on her, finally, and a rush of triumph flew through Morgana. Although he kept his voice low, he spoke the words furiously, arms crossed tight across his chest. “Do you think it’s easy, Morgana? To live—to _know_ —"

He broke off, inarticulate at ever, and reset his shoulders. Morgana recognised it as an action he did when he was bottling himself up, and for once wished she could just get him to stop and let it (whatever _it_ was) out. Alternatively she wished she had the strength to push him into the dirt.

“I’m not asking you to reconsider your stance on sorcery,” hissed Morgana. “I’m just asking you not to hold it against Merlin.”

It was a very small thing, and the consequence of the conversation was very small, also. Arthur didn’t exactly decide to listen to her, but she had hammered her point in through his (in her opinion) thick skull, and he decided that he could shoulder his wounded pride long enough to respect Merlin in his grief. So it was he made no comment to Merlin later about Will’s sorcery (and Merlin’s supposed knowledge of it), and Merlin was not forced to agree that it was true, and lie to his friend. It was a tiny, insignificant thing, but it saved Merlin no small amount of grief, and that is always something.


	14. The Fool's King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which certain things kick off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick fire notes ab this chapter: the episode has lots of great gwen/morgana stuff, so this chapter is not really about them. i realise that this may be disappointing, but primarily this fic is about the relationships between the four of them, and i'm quite interested in merlin and morgana’s conflicting opinions about how exactly that golden age of albion should be brought about.

Merlin was properly and understandably miserable in the weeks following Ealdor, and it was painful to watch. This was because he tried very hard to pretend he was alright, and not miserable at all, and he did an absolutely rubbish job at it. Morgana and Gwen were very sweet, and helped as much as they could; Gwen by offering to cover his chores, and bringing him flowers practically every day, and Morgana by grabbing Merlin in one hand and her sword in the other, taking him out to the forest, and trying to get him to beat up a tree.

“I really don’t want to,” said Merlin, when she suggested this, because he didn’t want to hurt the tree. Morgana put her hands on her hips.

“You’ve got to let it out, Merlin,” she said. “Otherwise you’ll bottle everything up and turn into Arthur.”

“Can’t have that,” said Merlin, weakly. Morgana frowned at him, her palms itching and left leg jittering with the urge to move (possibly she was channelling her own feelings on the matter into the effort of making Merlin smile). She came up with a new plan.

“Right,” she said, and grabbed him by the arm again, dragging him even further into the forest. He went without much protest, which was terribly concerning, and then Morgana thrust him into a clearing, spread her arms wide, and said;

“Go wild.”

Merlin blinked at her. “What?”

“Your magic, Merlin. Just… do as much as you want. I’ll stand guard. You must get tired of keeping it all in.”

Merlin was more or less stunned by the offer, but said he couldn’t take her up on it, not today, and Morgana said that she supposed that was fine, and that whenever he wanted to all he had to do was say the word, and she would accompany him and support him. Merlin would eventually take her up on this offer a week and a bit later, after talking to Arthur, which broke his tremulous hold on his sanity.

Arthur had, of course, noticed Merlin’s misery (he would have been hard pressed not to) and felt absolutely rotten about it. He had no idea what to do, and he tried giving him the day off (Merlin refused), giving him more chores to take his mind off it (Merlin did them without complaint), goading him into a fight in the hopes of allowing him to let off some steam (it didn’t work, and Arthur just felt even more bad about the things he had said), and then, finally, most difficultly, a moment of rare honesty.

“Look, Merlin,” he said, and placed a hand on his shoulder, because that was the only form of affection he’d ever received from his father, and so was the limit of his means to express sympathy. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“But you need me to stop moping and get my polishing skills back up to scratch?” finished Merlin, in the poor approximation of a joke, and Arthur increased his grip, his thumb digging into Merlin’s scrawny shoulder.

“No,” he said. “I’m just sorry.”

It was after this that Merlin found Morgana, and the two of them disappeared into the forest for a day, and came out of it much better. Merlin was worn out, but he felt lighter than he had in weeks, having let his magic roam properly free for the first time since he had come to Camelot, the burden of being seen entirely off his shoulders, since he trusted Morgana to warn him if she saw someone coming. He had collapsed on his back in the clearing, panting, and Morgana had come and lain next to him, looking pleased with herself.

“Better?” she asked, looking over at him. He was grinning up at the sky, cheeks flushed, but now he twisted his head towards her.

“Yeah. Loads.”

She beamed at him, and he looked back up at the blue, biting his lip. “Thanks, Morgana.”

They were silent for a moment. Morgana had tried not to spy on him as he did his spells, but she felt as though she could feel it still buzzing around him, saturating the air they breathed, and it filled her with a tingling sensation down to her toes. She took a deep breath, eyes closing, and let it fill her up like a golden light.

“Can you feel that?” she asked, and felt rather than saw him smile.

“Yeah,” said Merlin.

“What is it?”

“Life, I think.” Morgana opened her eyes, and again looked at him, watching his face. “That’s what magic is, really. Life.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Morgana, and Merlin’s grin softened.

“It is.”

It was after this that things got much better, for a time. The sting of loss lessened, and Merlin could carry on with himself without thinking constantly of Will, or blaming himself for his death. He smiled more genuinely when Gwen presented him with flowers, and he settled back into teasing Arthur, and things (at length) returned more or less to how they were. He talked to Morgana about magic, and watched her as she tried to control her desire for it (which he knew, but did not say (so that she could discover it in her own time), was her own abilities reaching out from within her). He found her twice standing stock still with her hand pressed to something (a tree, or a castle wall) and her eyes shut as she tried to feel out the magic it had soaked up. She always blushed when she was caught, but she was defiant, too, and all four of them were for a while very happy.

Which was why, probably, everything went properly tits-up, and all at the same time; Gwen’s father died, and then Merlin got hit with a murder plot. To kill the king. Orchestrated by Morgana.

Merlin sighed, and rubbed his forehead. Just another Sunday in Camelot.

Actually there were a fair few things in-between the foray into the forest and Morgana’s attempted assassination, which we will bring you up to speed with. Autumn had given away to winter, and then that too had mostly passed, and placed them in the season’s final days. Merlin could feel spring’s approach vibrating in the air, his magic alive with the beginnings of new life, and he spent more than one day rather hopped up on the feeling, so much so that Arthur noticed and asked him what had gotten him so cheerful.

“Nothing,” Merlin had chirped, and then gone on to seriously disturb Arthur by humming as he polished his boots.

The last serious threat Merlin had had to deal with, magical or otherwise, had not been since the harvest— and that one, frankly, had been all Arthur’s fault. Merlin had mostly forgiven him for the unicorn fiasco by now (helped along a bit by the fact that Arthur had tried to sacrifice himself to fix it, which had also sort of maybe possibly depending-on-what-way-you-looked-at-it meant sacrificing himself to save Merlin), and Merlin had started to think things would turn out alright.

Then Morgana decided to try and kill the king.

Merlin did not really want to think about Gwen’s father, quite honestly. He knew this made him a terrible person; Gwen was his friend, and he had hugged her while she cried herself to sleep after his death, and it had been painful on a whole multitude of levels, but he did not want to think about it. Perhaps it was cowardly, but — he needed to believe in Arthur. He needed to believe in a kingdom where magic was not banned, not punishable by death, and in a kingdom where these two facts could somehow make up for the suffering preceding them. He was scared that if he thought about it — if he really, truly _thought_ about it — that he would realise they could never, and he would lose faith in it all: in destiny, in Arthur, in the mad thought that somehow he could fix it. So he tried not to.

As it was, Tom was not the only one who had been affected; the men who had housed Tauren, provided him with shelter and food, were also to be executed, in spite of the action being done unknowingly.

“They’ve committed a serious crime,” said Arthur, tersely, as they oversaw the arrests. There were a lot of conflicting emotions happening beneath the surface that Merlin was not privy to, and so they were both bad-tempered with one another.

“Giving the man a bed for the night—”

“Not a man,” interrupted Arthur, voice clipped. His arms were folded tight across his chest. “A sorcerer.”

“Well maybe they didn’t _know_ that—”

“Merlin,” snapped Arthur, and turned on him. “It is not for you to question my father’s actions, is that understood?”

Merlin glared at him. “Yes, _sire_. Just doesn’t seem very fair.”

They were both silent for a long moment, fuming and staring as the guards marched the offenders through the town, and then Arthur said, under his breath, so that they could pretend Merlin was not meant to hear it: “That’s because it’s not.”

And so Merlin chose to focus on these breadcrumbs instead of the reality, and hold onto the vision of the future he wanted. It was cowardice, but of an understandable sort. He was only a boy, after all, and it was a hefty weight to place on a boy’s shoulders. Also, Merlin suspected that Gwen blamed him for having the audacity to still be living when he was the guilty one, not her father, and this also made him want to run and hide (she did not think this; it was solely Merlin’s guilt talking, but that did not matter to him). As such he tried to ignore the reality of the situation, and focus on other things; it was almost lucky, then, that Morgana provided him with something.

Where Merlin was trying not to feel, Morgana was feeling too much. Her rage, her grief and her shame overwhelmed her; she could barely think straight, could not pay attention to simple tasks, and her hands shook constantly. She had tried to speak out, tried to use what little sway she had for good, and she had failed. She had failed herself, she had failed Tom, and she had failed Gwen. It was not enough to have been placed in the dungeons— what was bruised skin to the loss of Gwen’s father? If anything the marks reminded her more of her failure, and her knowledge that she were to blame, for if only she had been faster, been better; if only she could have offered Tom a better chance of escape, if only she had waited until after the trial, if only she had not been such a coward, and had aided him properly herself.

“I could not bear if anything happened to you,” Gwen had whispered after, and kissed the damaged skin on Morgana’s wrists, but Morgana could not say the same, for something already _had_ happened to Gwen. She was enraged, and she was a go-getter. She got what she wanted, always, and what she wanted was Uther Pendragon dead.

Merlin had figured this out.

It was the stone that did it, although the thing itself did not turn out to be so important in the end, and acted more as a catalyst. It had flared up when Morgana touched it, in the early hours of the morning, and it’s pull was so strong that it woke Merlin from his restless sleep. He had, not unreasonably, assumed the magic had to do with something dangerous, and so had risen in search of it; but what he found was not an evil sorcerer, but instead Morgana rushing from the castle even though it was not yet dawn. Merlin had then forgotten, briefly, that Morgana was his friend, and tailed her.

She was meeting with Tauren to return the stone, and Merlin found that the situation did admittedly make more sense once he found out that she was undertaking this task to save Gwen from it. Meeting with a known enemy of the crown had apparently, though, been not such a great idea, and Merlin thought it was therefore probably good he’d come along.

“I had no quarrel with your maid,” announced Tauren, and drew his sword. “But you, my Lady Morgana… you are Uther’s ward.”

He thrust the sword against Morgana’s ribs, and Merlin saw her freeze, though the sword did not pierce her. Merlin held his breath, and prepared to do a bit of hasty magic if it came down to it, steadying his hand against the tree trunk he hid behind.

“If you kill me you’ll regret it,” goaded Morgana, and her voice was steady, not like Merlin expected. She almost sounded like she was taunting him. Merlin began to get a very bad feeling in his stomach.

“And why is that?”

“Because I want Uther dead, too.”

 _Well, fuck_ , thought Merlin.

Tauren went on, detailing how he intended to use the gold forged from the stone to bribe his way into Camelot, and line the pockets of the guards, advisors and nobles alike, even the king himself. Morgana scoffed.

“The guards may be fools, but the king is not. To get to Uther, you need someone close to him.”

“And do you know of such a person?”

Morgana levelled him with a stare. “I _am_ such a person.”

Merlin sucked in a breath, and did some rather quick thinking on the spot. He leaned back against the tree, heart racing in his chest, and tried to get himself under control. Alright, so Morgana wanted to kill Uther. Understandable, really, who hadn’t had the urge? At his sides, his hands curled into fists. Was _this_ his destiny? Was this what the dragon had meant, when he’d said Merlin would return magic to the kingdom? Befriend Morgana, open her up to magic, and then stand by and watch as she killed the king?

“Shit,” Merlin said, and, checking that they had gone, started on his return to the castle. His footsteps were shaky, and he stumbled more than once, because he was not looking where he was going. He remembered Morgana, on her hands and knees and covered in dirt, when they had had to rescue Gwen from the Sidhe. He remembered her looking up at him and admitting simply, easily, that she would let him enchant her. That she wasn’t afraid of him. He remembered the look on her face in the forest.

Somewhere along the line it became known that walking helped to clear one’s head. The advice had got muddled the more it was passed on, until people thought it was fact. If it wouldn’t clear one’s head, it would at least temper the emotion festering, and make logic easier to access. That was the general opinion, and it is still given as advice to this day.

This was not Merlin’s experience.

It took an hour to get back to the castle, but by the end of it he felt, if possible, even more lost. He was distracted, in the clouds, but could find no answer. It seemed imperative that he do _something_ ; he could not just go about as usual, washing Arthur’s socks and pretending it was all fine. He either had to find a plan to stop Morgana, or admit she was right, and help her. He had to do _something_.

“Do nothing,” said the dragon, because he never did agree with Merlin’s ideas. A sinking feeling settled in Merlin’s stomach.

“What do you mean?” he asked, but he knew, of course. The dragon gave him an unimpressed look (or as unimpressive a look as a dragon can give).

“Don’t you want Uther dead?” he said, in a manner that certainly _implied_ he knew what he was talking about, but which Merlin did not particularly want to hear. “It is Uther that persecutes you and your kind; it is Uther that murders the innocent. It is time to let Arthur’s reign begin, and for you to fulfil your destiny.”

“Where does it say my destiny includes murder?” demanded Merlin, but got no response except the flapping of the dragon’s wings, which was just typical.

Alright, so, that was one source of advice out. But as much as he had not liked the dragon’s advice — as much as it pushed him towards the ‘save Uther’ end of the scale — he disliked Gaius’ just as much. It was all very well and good to talk about what Uther _had_ done (Merlin did not know much about Camelot’s political history, else he might have been more impressed) when what really mattered was what he _was_ doing.

“At what cost?” insisted Merlin, fidgeting with his hands. “Peace and prosperity that’s built on the bodies of women and children, fathers and sons — he executed those men just for giving Tauren a bed! He’d kill me if he got the chance, and he’d kill M— he’d kill anyone, anyone who he thought was a threat, regardless of whether they were or not. How is that a good king, one who kills before the crime has been committed? When will it end?”

“It will end when Arthur is king,” said Gaius, as though this was a proper answer, and Merlin shook his head.

“So why not let that time be now? Why not let Arthur _be_ king?”

“Arthur’s not ready, the responsibility would be too great. Brave though he may be he lacks experience, he lacks judgement.”

“But he’s a good _man_ ,” burst Merlin, and Gaius sighed.

“Good men do not always make good kings, Merlin.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Merlin, and shook his head. “Arthur would figure something out, he’d manage—”

“Merlin,” said Gaius, and stood up from his chair. His tone was not exactly sharp, more exhausted. He came over to Merlin’s stool, and sat next to him instead, so they were side by side.

“Were Arthur to be crowned king he would be flooded with advisors and lords who would try to guide him, and offer aid in a situation he would be lost in. I mean no discredit to him or his intelligence when I say that they would surely use him as a means to an end. Arthur has no experience in knowing what is good for a kingdom, he could be persuaded into anything. He’s only a boy.”

Merlin sighed, and put his head in his hands. This knowledge sat better with him than believing he would be needing to become okay with murder in the next few days, but he wasn’t sure if he liked it any better. Arthur was a prat, but he didn’t believe he would be as helpless as Gaius thought. He had a good heart, and he knew what it was to be just; he would always do what he believed was right, and be a good king regardless of the circumstances leading to his coronation— then Merlin had the sudden thought that having his father killed by a sorcerer might skew those principles a bit, and may be not be such a good idea after all.

Merlin was running out of options, and out of time. Morgana had met with Tauren again, within the castle, and was set to kill Uther when they journeyed to her father’s grave tomorrow (which Merlin knew because he had, once again, spied on her). He had a sudden burst of adrenaline, and then suddenly he was outside of chambers, and letting himself in.

“By the _gods_ , Merlin,” startled Morgana, jumping about a foot in the air and clutching her cloak to her chest. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

Merlin was not in the mood for jokes, and he could tell that Morgana saw this on his face. She lowered the cloak, eyes flitting over him. “What?”

“Morgana,” said Merlin, and then frowned when his voice came out a bit croakily, and cleared his throat. “I know.”

Realisation flickered in her face, but she made a good show of it. “How to knock? You should start putting that to use, Merlin, it’s quite a good skill to have.”

Her hands shook, ever so slightly, as she placed the cloak on her table, and then she gripped the back of the chair, jaw set. Merlin closed his eyes for a moment, but it was futile. He couldn’t run from it now.

“Morgana, I saw you. I heard you. With Tauren.”

Her eyebrow twitched. “Following me, were you?”

“Yeah.”

She huffed, but did not look surprised. “Not very friendly behaviour.”

“Neither is plotting to kill someone,” Merlin pointed out, and her eyes narrowed.

“Uther and I are _not_ friends.”

“But he trusts you.”

“Yes, well,” dismissed Morgana, a little shakily. He thought she might have been trying to convince herself. “That was his mistake, not mine.”

“Morgana,” said Merlin, and walked over to the table. “We’re friends, talk to me. If this is about magic—”

Morgana snorted derisively. Her knuckles whitened on the chair, and Merlin wondered, suddenly, if she was feeling the magic prick at her fingertips, itching to be let out.

“The magic,” she repeated. “It’s not about the _magic_ , Merlin, it’s about the _people_. All those innocent people he’s killed throughout my whole life, anyone who even so much as _thinks_ the word sorcery, all dead, because of him. He killed Gwen’s _father_ —”

Here she broke off, and recomposed herself. Even her hands stopped trembling.

“Can’t you see?” she asked, and looked up at him. “Merlin, don’t you see? If Uther dies, Arthur will be king. You know him; he’s a better man than his father, he always was. He wouldn’t execute anyone without reason, without trial. Uther’s reign— it’s a sham. He’s the reason you live in fear, why _I_ —”

She broke off, then shook her head, almost to herself. “But it is, it is about the magic. You know, Merlin. And I’ve seen you, you’re _good_. So is your magic. It’s beautiful. It isn’t— you shouldn’t have to hide it. Nobody should. Nobody should be _scared_ of themselves.”

She grabbed his shoulders, her face imploring.

“You don’t have to help me,” she said, shaking her head, and Merlin realised she was trying to reassure him, to make it _better_. “You don’t have to do anything, I’ll take care of it. It will all fall on me.”

“Morgana,” pleaded Merlin, feeling a horrible scratching feeling climb up his spine. “It’s murder.”

Something closed behind Morgana’s eyes, and she stepped back from him, letting go. He didn’t think she was disappointed (he _hoped_ she wasn’t), but there was something in her expression — hurt, maybe — that he loathed to have put there. Like he had betrayed her.

“You don’t want me to,” she said, stunned. “I— _how_ can you not want him dead?”

“Arthur,” croaked Merlin, and Morgana flinched.

“He’ll survive,” she said. “Plenty of us have lived fatherless. Uther took mine from me, same as he took Gwen’s.”

“You can’t seriously want to hurt Arthur,” tried Merlin, but he was (in the heat of the moment) a bit worried she would say that she did.

“Of course not,” Morgana snapped. “But I’m not going to let him stop me from saving countless others just to spare him grief. It’s a fact of life, Merlin.”

Morgana studied him; Merlin had no idea what she found, being that he did not know himself, but whatever she did caused her to say the following:

“I can’t fault you for not approving,” said Morgana, a bit icily. “But I would not try and stop me.”

It was not quite a threat, but still Merlin stepped back, unprepared for it. He knew exactly what she was implying, and it wounded him, to know that she would do so, or at the very least use it to intimidate him. He swallowed, and wished he could say he did not recognise Morgana, but he did. He understood perfectly why she wanted to kill Uther, and much like she couldn’t fault him for not liking it, he could not really fault her for the desire.

He was leaving, and his hand was on the doorknob when she stopped him once more.

“Merlin,” said Morgana, quietly, his back to her. “You called me a murderer. What do you call him?”

He didn’t answer, but it was a hell of a thing to leave ringing in his ears. He heard nothing else all night, just the words repeated over and over in his mind, and felt so unbearably nauseous that he almost took something for it. When he did sleep it was restless and erratic, and he woke to the sheets that were twisted around his legs from where he had thrashed about during the night. Maybe Arthur wasn’t lying about calling him ‘kicky’ when they camped out on patrols.

He passed Morgana on his way in from the courtyards that morning; she was flanked by the guards, on her way to fetch the king. Their eyes caught. Merlin thought she held her chin a little higher, daring him, and he looked away.

He didn’t stop her. He thought, probably, that he had decided. But there was always the last minute.

In the end it was not Gaius or the dragon or even Morgana who persuaded him into action; it was Gwen. Good, sweet, honourable Gwen, who even after all she had been through would not sacrifice her principles, or what she believed was right. He could not believe he had not asked her before, but then he hadn’t wanted to add to her plate, not when she already had at least three on the table. Also he was not really sure where killing the guy who murdered your father fell on the whole relationship side of things, and didn’t really want to mess theirs up by accident.

“If you had the power of life or death over Uther,” asked Merlin, urgently, aware that Morgana was getting further from his reach by the second, “would you kill him?”

Gwen’s mouth fell open, and her eyebrows drew together, as though she could not believe he had asked her such a thing. Her response was immediate, and it felt simultaneously like a wave of fire and ice rushing over him, and he knew she would make the right choice, or at the very least that he would follow her whatever it was.

“No.”

“No?”

Gwen shook her head, voice breathless. “Of course not. That would make me a murderer— that would make _me_ as bad as _him_.”

“You’re right,” whispered Merlin, and clapped a hand to his mouth. “You’re right, of course you’re right. Shit.”

“Is something wrong?” asked Gwen, because she was not an idiot, or blind, and could tell how much her answer had affected Merlin. Merlin himself was already halfway out the door.

“Yeah, no, everything’s fine!” he called over his shoulder, and tripped on his own feet in his haste. Gwen was obviously not convinced, and really Merlin couldn’t blame her.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Gwen yelled, and ran after him, catching his hand. Merlin did not have _time_ for this. “Tell me what’s the matter!”

“Yeah, fine, what the hell,” panted Merlin. He shrugged helplessly. “Morgana’s going to kill the king.”

“What!” squeaked Gwen, but Merlin was already pulling her down the corridor in a hurry, with so little care that they skidded on the freshly polished floors, and practically slid around corners. Gwen did not try and slow him down, but her hand was very tight in his own, and he knew that as soon as they were out of the castle, and out of earshot, that he would have to give her a very hasty explanation of why her girlfriend was committing treason, probably while running, as well. He expected it would be very choppy and not at all eloquent, but who cared, at this point? He and Gwen had some sorcerers to kill (read: mildly incapacitate), and a king to save. He couldn’t be expected to do it all.

***

In the end, though, Merlin did not have to. We have not spoken much of Morgana and her motivations, for they are very difficult to get down on paper. Even she did not truly understand them, except on a very base, instinctual level, wherein she was feeling them but could not articulate them, because to articulate them would have resulted in an overload, and a breakdown, and she was trying to avoid these. Should you have suffered through a terse relationship with a parent yourself then you may have some insight to what she was feeling, but you would then have to heap on a whole load of power struggle on top of that, and come to terms with your dad having the legal ability to not only chuck you in jail, but also execute you, if he felt like it.

Morgana was, in short, having a very bad day.

She hated Uther, which was the feeling she focused on. It danced under her skin when she sweet-talked him, made nice with him, and she did it all with satisfaction of knowing she was playing him. It put her beyond his power; he could not hurt her, because she was hurting him. _She_ was in control. Yet underneath it there was a feeling of betrayal, because he forgave her, and loved her, and he wished to see her happy. It was not, you must understand, a betrayal towards him, but to herself. She hated him, she knew she did, she could feel it in her bones, and yet in these moments a part of her rejoiced at feeling the affection that had so long been denied to her, and she hated herself for it. He had taken her father from her but not had the gall to step in for him, to replace what he had deprived from her life. She wanted him to hate her, and she wanted him to love her. She wanted him to feel what she felt, to contend with but a sliver of the anguish that wrought her. She did not want to think anything of him at all.

It was not worst that she hated him but still loved him. It was that a part of her _wanted_ to love him, and wanted to be loved in return. It was a part of her she could not stand. She could not love the man that killed Gwen’s father— it was a burden she could and would not bear, out of her own pride and her love for Gwen. If Uther left the world then she prayed he would take the feelings plaguing her with him; that he would leave her finally clean of his imprint.

“You challenge me as a friend must, as your father did in his time.”

“And when I do you clap me in irons,” spat Morgana, and thrilled at the emotion that rushed through her. Uther sighed; his hand was grave on her shoulder.

“I know I’m not an easy man,” he said. “My temper… blinds me, sometimes; there are things that I regret.”

Morgana shook her head, and clenched her jaw. The flowers round her father’s monument were daisies, and she saw them in Gwen’s hair, the way she liked to wear them sometimes. Her body trembled from rage.

“Gwen’s father?”

“Yes.”

The feeling slipped from her grasp, like fabric in the wind. She thought inexplicably of the tree. “Are you saying you were wrong to have Tom killed?”

“Yes.”

This was not in Morgana’s plan. Her breath quickened, she became aware of her every limb. Uther placed his hand on her face, pleading in a way she had never seen him do before, and doing it for her.

“Morgana, you are the daughter I never had. Your counsel is invaluable, as is your friendship and your love. Without you I cannot hope to be the king this land deserves. Please, forgive me.”

She looked at him, and she looked at Tauren, behind him, and she looked at the dagger.

Morgana made a choice. We will not say whether it was the right or wrong one, only that it was the one made, and once it was done there was nothing anyone could do about it. She saved Uther’s life, and in doing so managed to undo very little of the mess she had made. Her and Merlin had crossed odds, Morgana still had to contend with the emotional mess she found herself in (there was now a good healthy dose of guilt over not having the courage or strength to rid the world of Uther hanging over her, on top of everything else), and Gwen tried to grapple with the fact that her girlfriend was apparently down with treason and murder, now. In her father’s name, no less. They had a small spat about it.

“You are angry with me,” said Morgana, that night, looking down at Gwen, who was sitting in Morgana’s chair, as she had been ever since she had returned with Merlin to the castle. Gwen’s face was unreadable— not, Morgana thought, because she was deliberately making it so, but rather because there was so much going on that it was impossible to pick only one emotion out of it.

“I don’t know,” whispered Gwen, hand to her temple in exhaustion as she tried to get her thoughts in order.

She could not blame Morgana for wanting to kill Uther. She hated him for what he had done to her family, and for how he treated Morgana, and the turmoil he had put his ward through. She hated him for the constant fear and torture he placed Merlin under, for the innocent people killed under his hand, for the way he had let Arthur fester in self-doubt and self-loathing. She hated him so much she worried that it would consume her, and harden her, and she had never once wanted to be hard. She could not begrudge Morgana the desire, but to think that— to think that Gwen’s _father_ might have been the cause, when all his life he had been nothing but good and kind and sweet and honourable; to have his life marred not just by the world believing him a sorcerer, but by actually _inspiring_ the loss of another life…

“That I would kill him?” asked Morgana, in a hush. “When he has caused so much suffering? When he killed your father?”

Gwen found her voice.

“Do not,” she said, and balled her hands into fists where they now rested on her thighs. “Do not use my father’s death as an excuse. He was a _good man_ , he would not _ever_ have— to commit an act like that, to do it in his _name_ … I could never… Morgana, I’m not sure I could have forgiven you, had you carried it through.”

Morgana recoiled, face ashen.

“His tyranny,” she whispered, choked. “All the things he has said and done, Gwen, you _must_ see— you must see why I…”

“I do,” said Gwen, and it was something, the way she flitted between rage and sorrow and concern for Morgana. “You need not explain yourself to me. But it’s all been _so much_ ; my father, and now this— I need some distance.”

Gwen regretted, mightily, the look it put on Morgana’s face, but she pressed on. “I would like one of your other ladies to take over my duties for the future.”

“Gwen,” breathed Morgana, and reached for her, then hesitated when Gwen flinched, her hands hovering in the air between them. “For how long?”

“Not forever,” reassured Gwen. She grasped both of Morgana’s hands, and kissed them; she was angry, and exhausted, but there was no state of mind which would have enabled her to love Morgana less than she did. “A few weeks, maybe. I just cannot… _be_ with you, at this moment. At every moment.”

Morgana pulled herself together, but barely. “I understand. Of course you must have whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” said Gwen, and that was it. She felt, suddenly, awful for putting this on Morgana, when she needed Gwen’s support; Gwen did not know why she had changed her mind about killing Uther, but she knew it could not have been an easy thing. Still, though, she withdrew her hands, and left Morgana alone, and retreated into solitude herself. She returned to her house for the first time since Tauren had attacked her, and buried herself in her father’s bedsheets, and had a very well-deserved cry that would certainly not be her last for some time.

As you can imagine, the air between the three of them over the next few weeks was all very bleak, and fraught with tension. They each of them kept to themselves, out of a genuine reluctance to see the others or because they naively believed it was wanted (as in Merlin’s case towards Gwen), when really what would have got them all through and out the other side was kindness and companionship. As it was these things seemed slow to arrive, and when they did it was for each of them from an unlikely source. He had not witnessed any of the events, and so was mostly unbiased, and he offered surprisingly good company and a friendly ear to them all in turn, and in the end it was him that brought them back together.

It was, of course, Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think it's important for gwen to have motivations/thoughts/characteristics beyond "good and loyal friend who supports others". she IS all those things, and she's lovely, but i think she should be allowed to be mad, too. i'll be interested to hear what you guys think of her reaction to morgana's attempted assassination!
> 
> also, #LETMERLINSAYFUCK!


	15. Not the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur mends that which is broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is stupidly long (i think i didn't want it to end), so i recommend you settle in with a cuppa of your drink of choice, and enjoy arthur being his usual ridiculous self. i love him tremendously.

Arthur had no idea what the hell had happened. All he knew was that he went to bed one night and everything was fine, and the next thing he knew Merlin was even tetchier than usual, Gwen was no longer working for Morgana, and Morgana herself had turned into a ghost, which was not in any way, shape or form a metaphor (he had stumbled upon her twice in the halls, simply wandering, her eyes glazed over; the first time she’d still been in her nightgown and he really _had_ thought her a ghost). He began, quite naturally in his opinion, by assuming it was Merlin’s fault.

“Out with it,” he prompted, when Merlin had gotten him into undershirt, overshirt and jacket without one single snappy retort (this was also, incidentally, how he knew something was really wrong, and when he started to get worried). “What did you do to Gwen and Morgana?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Merlin, clipped, and avoided his eyes. Arthur raised his eyebrows sceptically, not that he expected it to have any effect; Merlin was annoyingly stubborn about not being affected by such things as dutiful honesty to his prince.

“ _Really_. You haven’t noticed that Gwen’s stopped working for her?”

Merlin busied himself with a buckle. “No, I hadn’t heard that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” said Arthur, exasperated, and slapped his hands away from the fastenings. Merlin tried to find something else to rest his gaze on, and seemed to settle on his left shoe. He was, Arthur thought fondly, a very bad liar. His face was all contorted. “Everyone and their mother has heard about it.”

(This was not true at all. Arthur had just, quite sweetly really, assumed that because this matter was important to him, it was of equal weight to everyone else in the kingdom. The only other source of gossip about the staff change was among Morgana’s ladies in waiting, but they were tight-lipped about it, and only talked among themselves).

“Well, not me,” said Merlin. Arthur discovered that he did not exactly know how to talk with him when they weren’t bantering, and in the ensuing silence Merlin managed to get one up on him, and slip out of his chambers before Arthur could think of a reason to make him stay.

“Right,” said Arthur, to no-one, and decided to come up with a better plan.

He thought he’d try Guinevere, because she seemed like the most likely to be reasonable, and he didn’t think she would tell him directly to bugger off, as Morgana would. Gwen was quite good at sidestepping questions she didn’t want to answer, but at least Arthur might be able to get a clue at what was the matter from those that she avoided.

There was also the question of finding some way to speak with her; he couldn’t very well just _summon_ her to his rooms, people might get the wrong idea. Merlin was also avoiding him, and involved, so asking him to fetch her was out of the question. Arthur had to revert to the only other tactic he could think of; this mostly consisted of walking the route down to the kitchen, and the laundry, and hoping he would bump into her. He passed Sir Leon six times in all.

“Is everything alright, sire?” asked Leon, when Arthur had been (he thought) doing a very good job of keeping his face stony and neutral, and not at all suggestive of him being aware he was walking in circles. He nodded.

“Perfectly so,” said Arthur, in his best _I’m-the-king’s-son-don’t-question-my-methods_ voice (which incidentally drove Merlin mad), “Thank you, Sir Leon.”

Leon hesitated, but nodded, and Arthur was glad _some_ people didn’t see fit to doubt him, and would take him at his word. “Yes, sire.”

Arthur decided he better find another route.

One of the problems was that he didn’t really know a lot about what the servants _did_. He knew what _Merlin_ did, obviously (or perhaps, more accurately, what Merlin was supposed to do but didn’t), but the maids were a force of their own. For all his trying, it was when he finally gave up, and decided to go see if his father had anything he wanted seeing to, that he finally ran into her. Quite literally.

“Oh!” said Gwen, startled, and clutched the basket of laundry to her chest. “Sorry, sire.”

Arthur hadn’t seen her in weeks, not since her father’s death, and this close up she looked, quite frankly, terrible. There were smudges under her eyes and a pale, sickly quality to her skin, and the usual attitude of cheer that accompanied her was missing. She did smile at him, but it was strained and looked wrong. Arthur straightened himself up.

“No matter,” he dismissed, and waved a hand. “Actually, I’ve been looking for you. I need to see you in my chambers.”

Gwen gaped at him as much as she would permit herself to gawk at the prince, which was not very much, but Arthur still felt himself colour.

“It’s—there’s a rat.” That was not a very good excuse, was it? He frowned, and wished he had Morgana’s quick thinking. “It’s, uh, eaten through my clothes, and I hear that you’re the best person to fix that.”

There, that was better. Arthur felt almost proud of himself.

“Merlin says you’re the best seamstress in Camelot,” he continued, and nodded decisively, because flattery was also always a good bet. “God knows I wouldn’t get him to fix the holes, he’d probably just put more in them.”

“Right, my lord,” said Gwen, suspiciously, but then sighed. “I have to take this to Aldith, first, but afterwards I can come and take a look.”

“Excellent,” said Arthur, and clapped his hands together. “Bring up some lunch, too, will you? It’ll be hungry work.”

Gwen’s smile got a little more taut, but Arthur didn’t notice, too in his own head. She curtsied. “Of course, sire.”

So Arthur went back to his chambers, feeling quite pleased at his undeniable brilliance and problem-solving, and the knowledge that soon he would put whatever had happened right, and not have to walk around in this misery any longer (and be able to put his concern to rest).

There was a letter to be written that Arthur didn’t really want to deal with, but he did it anyway, because he did actually take being the future king very seriously. It was not always pleasant work, and some of it was slightly boring, what when it consisted of working out portions of grain to be distributed across the kingdom, but it was important to the state’s overall wellbeing, and Arthur, being tasked with this duty, completed it to his best ability. Admittedly he had not quite finished it when Gwen arrived at his chambers, and he tossed it aside instantly to focus instead on these people who were almost like friends, but he was only twenty-one, and he had to have a bit of leeway somewhere.

“Here you are,” said Gwen, and placed the kitchen tray down in front of him, revealing lunch, which today was cold chicken and salad. Arthur frowned down at it, though not from displeasure.

“Where’s yours?”

Gwen blinked at him, and then after a moment made a face that said she would like to do something much more expressive, but was restraining herself because he was the prince. “I beg your pardon, sire?”

“I said bring _lunch_ , not _my_ lunch.”

Gwen looked at him in such a dumbfounded way that Arthur began to feel quite embarrassed. Why had he ever attempted to do this? He fumbled for a way to make it less so, and wanted desperately for her to sit down, so he didn’t have to look up at her, and in trying to make things less awkward he simply made them terribly more so.

“I mean — I’m only saying that I, er, wished to… dine with you.” Arthur winced. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Gwen opened and closed her mouth a few times. “Oh.”

“Yes,” managed Arthur, and then pushed the plate across the table with speed. “Here, I’ll send for another.”

He went and did just that, and when he came back Gwen had at least taken a seat, and was staring down at her chicken like she suspected it was actually not chicken at all, and was dubious about putting it in her mouth. Arthur cleared his throat, and sat down.

“So,” he said. “How are you?”

There were then seven minutes of extremely uncomfortable conversation, in which Gwen was quite bewildered and could not make head nor tail of what Arthur’s intentions were. She knew they were friendly, or friendlier than was usual between servants and princes, but she did not imagine that she existed in his world in anything other than the periphery. Yes, he had been kind to her after her father’s death, and gone to lengths to ensure her job was secure, and yes, there had been that time with the arm wrestle, and in the tavern, and— oh. Gwen had the sudden thought that maybe she had managed, quite accidentally, to somehow befriend the prince of Camelot.

So she did eat the meal, because he was insistent, and it was actually very nice, and after a while her shoulders did lose their rigidness, and the haunted atmosphere that had hung around her disseminated slightly, but only because she was too confused at this development to feel anything but.

Arthur, on his side of the table, was not faring much better. He was not yet very good at turning off his brattish attitude, even though he genuinely did want to help Gwen feel better. He liked her, as we have already said many a time, and he had not forgotten the times she had comforted him without being condescending or even acting as if she were doing it (which he appreciated), and also there was an air of understanding between them that he wished to cultivate. Essentially he just wanted to be her friend, and was quite annoyed that he was so rubbish at going about it.

“Was there something in particular you wanted to speak to me about?” asked Gwen eventually, after a silence, and Arthur decided to give up on subtlety.

“It’s about Morgana,” he said, and Gwen clammed up. “You don’t have to worry, I’m not going to— force you to talk about it. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“That’s very kind of you, sire.” Arthur noticed that her shoulders slumped at the mention of Morgana, and that her voice was devoid of emotion; mostly she just sounded incredibly drained. “But I assure you everything’s fine.”

He looked at the way her brow furrowed, and the way she gazed despondently at her plate, and frowned, a new (previously unthinkable) thought coming into his head. “She didn’t sack you, did she?”

Gwen shook her head. “I’d really rather not discuss it.”

Well, that at least Arthur could understand. It was not what he had wanted to hear, because what he wanted was to be in possession of a solution, but he was well versed in ignoring his feelings and hoping they went away, and so he was perfectly sympathetic to her plight. He tried to think what he could offer Gwen so that she would know he commiserated with her, but could think of nothing. He drummed his fingers on the table, nervous energy rattling around within him.

“Well, what _do_ you want?”

He saw Guinevere smile, a little ruefully, and she fiddled with her skirts, avoiding his eyes. She looked very tired.

“I want to play chess,” she sighed, and Arthur sat up a little straighter. _This_ , you see, was in fact within his capabilities, whereas feelings-talk was not.

He went and got his chess set without speaking, and put it on the table in front of her. Guinevere laughed at him, incredulous, but Arthur was serious, and started setting up the pieces. It was then that a new look came into Gwen’s eyes; she seemed to be regarding him, carefully and curiously, and some part of him that he tried to squash wondered if she liked what she saw.

“I warn you I’m much better than Morgana,” said Arthur, which was true as much as it was a brag. Seven years of military involvement, plotting and executing formations had given him the necessary head for it. He did not know, at this point, that Gwen was also much better than Morgana, and he had thought he might sacrifice his pride to cheer her up, and let her win. This turned out to be unnecessary.

“Hm,” said Arthur, staring down at the board, and the trap Gwen had lured him into. He looked up, but she was focused solely on the game, a crease between her eyebrows as she chewed on her thumbnail. Arthur surveyed the board again; it seemed any move he made was going to get him screwed. She’d won.

“Right, then,” Arthur said, and after he had lost he set-up the board again for another round, scooting his chair forward a little, to better concentrate.

They played four games, and Gwen won all of them. Arthur, sore-loser though he was (it was a _believing-his-father-would-only-love-him-if-he-was-the-best_ type of thing, not a _being-a-total-tool_ thing — well, mostly), could not even be that mad about it, only impressed. It was different to losing to Merlin, which was infuriating because he won solely through luck and chance; losing to Gwen summoned a feeling of respect, because she did it fair-and-square, and her strategies were simply better than Arthur’s.

“Where on earth did you learn this?” he asked, during the fifth game, when he was probably going to lose _again_ , and still didn’t have a clue how that had happened. Gwen smiled, soft and cheekily, seeming to have lost, or at least been distracted from, her misery.

“My father,” she answered, and Arthur worked to ignore the flare of guilt in his stomach. “We played all the time when I was a child, because I loved the pieces. As I grew up I learnt to love the game. He always said a good head could be learned from other sources than books.”

She moved her knight to take his castle, which, damn. Her voice had turned warm when she spoke of her father, and Arthur wondered what that must be like, to have good memories that weren’t tinged by the bad. He moved his bishop forward a few squares, and Gwen glanced at him, as though she was not sure if she was allowed to ask her own questions. Arthur wished everyone would stop being so scared of him all the time.

“Who taught you?”

“My tutor.” Arthur had not thought about Aurelius in years, but found himself smiling a little. “He said it would be good to develop the skills I’d need for military strategy. He was right.”

“You never played for the fun of it?”

Arthur shook his head, and wondered why the question felt like an accusation. Maybe it was the way it cut at him that caused him to return the conversation to Morgana, or maybe he just wanted to see if she’d talk to him now she’d softened up. Either way, he did it, and that was what mattered, in the end.

“Only with Morgana,” he answered, which was not really a lie. “But then I also had the incentive of getting her to stop being a brat for an hour. Unless she won, of course.”

Gwen hummed, but not scornfully, and really she seemed more absorbed in plotting her next move than in what was coming out of her mouth. “She can be difficult to temper. She’s headstrong, and she always— does what she thinks is right. Even if she doesn’t always consider the consequences.”

“No,” said Arthur, and considered this new information. “She’s always damned those.”

He had a new piece of the puzzle, although he wasn’t sure what to make of it. As it was it was drawing dark, and getting slightly improper for Gwen to be in here with him, or at least more so than it already was, so he was really quite lucky that it was Merlin who brought in the evening’s firewood, even if it did result in a fair bit of unnecessary chatter once he spotted Gwen.

“Oh,” said Merlin, after he’d let himself in. Arthur expected him to make a joke about him having a girl in his room, but he didn’t. Actually he looked positively shy. “Hullo, Gwen.”

“Merlin,” said Gwen, and suddenly seemed a bit more stiff. Arthur’s eyes narrowed, shooting between them. “Hello.”

“I’m just lighting a fire,” he said, and held up the firewood, like an idiot. Gwen nodded at him, as if this explanation was in any way necessary.

“She has eyes, Merlin,” said Arthur, because he didn’t think a conversation involving Merlin was worth it if it didn’t yield at least one insult, and also they seemed to be having a silent conversation with each other, which Arthur was not sure if he liked. The atmosphere snapped back into familiar territory as Merlin’s eyes flicked to him, and he sent back a retort of his own.

“Yeah, you certainly don’t, if you can’t see what she’s doing,” said Merlin, nodding at the chessboard, which he was peering at with interest. “See there, with her Queen—"

“Merlin!” yelped Gwen, in the least guarded manner he’d heard from her all afternoon. “Don’t _give it away!_ ”

Arthur had not taken his eyes off Merlin. He squinted at him, and sized him up.

“You don’t know,” he decided, and dismissed him. “You wouldn’t be such a rotten player if you had any actual ideas about strategy.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” said Merlin, and grinned at him, “and don’t cry to me when she beats you in four moves.”

As it turned out, Gwen did not beat him in four moves. She did it in three.

“You’re a fine opponent, Guinevere,” said Arthur once he had, in Merlin’s words, finally decided to stop hogging her for the evening, and let her go get on with her chores. He held out his hand, and after a moment they shook on it, Gwen getting a bit flustered. Arthur was pleased to note that they felt like friends.

“Thank you, sire,” said Gwen, and then paused. She smiled up at him, and it did at least look as though it came easier than before they had sat down together, tinged with fondness and reminiscence. “I haven’t played since my father died; it was nice.”

And with that she was gone, and Merlin was giving him a stupid look that was all dimples and big ears, and Arthur was feeling his good mood evaporate (except only a little bit, because it was just Merlin, and if he would just stop looking at Arthur like that then it would be _fine_ , and was it Arthur or was it getting rather hot in here?). He scratched at the back of his neck.

“What,” he snapped, but Merlin just kept grinning.

“You,” he said. “Doing a good thing. Being nice to Gwen.”

He poked Arthur in the shoulder as he passed him (annoyingly, in case there was any other way to poke someone). “You’ve got a heart after all.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” said Arthur, but without any real heat, and watched Merlin nod in fake compliance, tossing one of the chess pieces between his hands. He waved it in Arthur’s direction.

“So, do you want me to pack this up, or are you playing chess with all the servants, too?”

Arthur definitely did not smile, not at all, and if he did then it was just because his face was a traitor, and he was going to have it arrested for treason. What happened instead of this was that he frowned, as if in thought, and held out his hand.

“Give that here?”

Merlin did, like a true bumpkin, even though he’d been working for Arthur for almost a year and should have been able to guess what was coming. Arthur turned the piece over, considering its size, shape and approximate weight, and then lobbed it at Merlin’s head.

“Ow!” cried Merlin, even as it sailed right over him by at least half a foot. Arthur wouldn't have just let it hit him in the _face_ , as the whinging would have been unbearable, but in his distress at having a tiny wooden knight tossed at him, Merlin snatched up a handful of the remaining pieces, and threw them at Arthur. Two made their mark, and while they didn’t exactly _hurt_ , Arthur still decided that this was a declaration of war, and hurled them back with equal force.

So it was they did end up playing chess, of the snowball fight variety, and the outcome was that several of the pieces were lost forever, only to be uncovered weeks or even months later, and they didn’t find one of the pawns for a good six years. Arthur had to get another set made, which he threatened to have done in marble, but Merlin talked him down eventually.

Arthur had now put smiles on the faces of two out of three of his friends, but the job could not really be complete until he’d managed all of them, and then he thought there was the additional goal of getting them all smiling together, but Morgana turned out to be a much harder nut to crack than he anticipated. For one thing she was avoiding him as well as everyone else, and the only way for Arthur to get her in the same room as him would be by having his father summon her to dinner.

He was not above such measures.

“So, I hear there’s been a few staffing changes,” said Arthur, over his roast beef, and shot her a look. It was his opinion that she knew exactly why she had been called here, and would have liked very much to refuse, and was frustrated she hadn’t been allowed to. This he gathered from the ferocity with which she stabbed green beans with her fork.

“Staffing changes?” said his father, but in the sort of disinterested way one does when they are simply humouring the need for conversation. Arthur nodded anyway, and took a sip of his wine, adopting the same sort of manner — as though this was not important to him at all, rather than something he had gone to great lengths to put into place.

“Mm. Morgana’s fired her maid.”

His father looked up. Arthur supposed that checked out.

“If there’s a problem with your current arrangements,” he began, and Morgana shook her head.

“No! No, of course not.” She redirected her gaze to Arthur, and glared at him. It looked like a smile, but Arthur knew it was a glare. “And I haven’t _sacked_ her. I’ve simply given her a few weeks leave.”

“Whatever for?” asked his father, and Morgana’s expression got even more strained. Arthur reckoned he probably had about two minutes before she tried to kick him in the shins for dragging her down here, and wondered whether it would be too cowardly to move his chair back a bit.

“Compassionate leave,” said Morgana, her knuckles very white around her cutlery. “For her father.”

Uther loaded up some beans and meat on his fork, and took a bite, gesturing with his wine chalice. “Is he unwell?”

“No,” said Morgana, and then put down her knife and fork. She would not look at Arthur, who at this point regretted just about every decision he’d ever made in his life. “I’m afraid I am, though, my lord, if you’ll excuse me.”

And with that she was out the door, and Arthur had to admit that, this time, through fault that was entirely his own and not anyone else's (not even Merlin’s), he had in fact messed up rather gravely.

***

“You did _what?_ ” yelled Merlin, the next morning, and Arthur winced.

“It wasn’t my greatest decision.”

Merlin gaped at him; Arthur was apparently so stupid that he’d rendered him speechless. Given how many insults Merlin seemed to have ready to deploy at every other moment, Arthur thought this was probably a bad sign.

“Unbelievable,” said Merlin. “ _Un-_ believable, that’s what you are — did anyone ever tell you you’re a _complete_ turniphead?”

“You, constantly,” said Arthur, but did not even have the heart to have a go at him for the insult— he felt like it was that sort of day. Merlin threw Arthur’s shirt at his face.

“You have to fix this,” he warned, while the cloth smacked (this was an exaggeration) Arthur in the head. “I’m serious, Arthur, you just made everything, like, a kazillion times worse.”

“Kazillion isn’t a word, Merlin.”

“Yes it is, it’s how much worse you just made this situation.”

“Yes, alright, _fine_.” Arthur pulled the shirt over his head, grumbling the whole time. “Look, I’ve got a plan, alright? I want you to get Guinevere and bring her into the forest today at noon.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re not going to kill her, are you?”

“Don’t be so thick. Just trust me, and for once, don’t question me.”

Merlin did both of these things, and regretted it immensely once he realised what Arthur was actually doing. He’d managed to get Gwen out of her chambermaid duties (by doing them all for her with a handy spot of more or less instantaneous magic), and asked her to come with him for a walk, which she’d agreed to, saying she’d been too stuck up in the castle of late, and could do with the exercise.

“How are you?” asked Merlin, as they walked through the castle gates, hands in his pockets. Gwen had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. They were getting along much better now since they had run into one another in Arthur’s chambers; Merlin had told her how he’d simply been trying to give her time to grieve, and Gwen said that really all she wanted was the company of a friend, and now they were back to being thick as thieves, and much less miserable.

“Oh, I’m alright,” she said, and Merlin nudged her lightly, in sympathy. “Really, I am.”

“Did you hear back from Elyan?”

“No,” said Gwen, her fingers twisting in her shawl. “But it’s understandable; I probably didn’t even have the right address, he’s always on the move.”

Merlin thought what a wonder it was that she always gave everyone the very best benefit of the doubt. He chanced a glance at her.

“What about with Morgana?”

“Oh,” said Gwen, and her mouth turned downwards. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I was feeling. I want things to go back to the way they were, but I think I’ve hurt her deeply. I always promised her I’d be on her side.”

“You are,” said Merlin. “Gwen, you never left her side. Taking time for yourself doesn’t mean you betrayed her.”

They kept talking as they descended through the lower town and made their way into the forest. If Merlin were a better tracker, like Arthur, or actually paid attention when they went on hunts, he might have noticed the two downtrodden paths in the fresh grass, and got an inkling of Arthur’s plan much sooner than he did. As it was he was an appalling tracker, was too focused trying to scare animals away on hunts to think about anything else, and did not at even one point glance at the grass and wonder what the footprints were about.

“Where are we going?” asked Gwen, when it became apparent he was actually leading them somewhere.

“It’s just, ah—just through here,” said Merlin, pushing his way into the clearing, and being greeted with a view of Morgana, sword in hand, absolutely beating the hell out of Arthur, an exhilarated grin on her face. She saw him instantly, as she was facing him, then saw Gwen behind him, and the weapon abruptly dropped from her grip. Arthur took advantage of this to get to his feet, and he even had the audacity to wave Merlin over with the hand not holding his own sword.

“Oh, for the love of—” began Merlin, his jaw dropping. “Arthur, this is a bit far.”

Arthur, quite expectedly, ignored him, and instead tugged Morgana over to him and Gwen. Morgana was very pale in the face, and would not look anywhere but Gwen, who was, coincidentally, positively rigid beside Merlin.

“Right,” announced Arthur, once they were all in reasonable vicinity of one another. “All of you are going to stop whatever is the matter, and be friends again.”

It was silent; somewhere in the distance Merlin could hear a bird singing its song, probably declaring what a lovely day it was having, and wished fervently that that was him, and he’d never ever in his life had to put up with Arthur Pendragon.

Arthur did not seem perturbed by the lack of ceremony following his announcement. “Well, you’d better get used to it, because the four of us are going on a hunt.”

“Oh, Arthur, _no_ ,” said Merlin, and actually covered his face in his hands. “You can’t _possibly_ be this stupid.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” said Arthur, cheerily. “We’re going to catch us some rabbits and you’re going to enjoy it.”

“Because killing things mends broken hearts,” muttered Morgana, sullenly, and a stricken expression crossed Gwen‘s face.

“No,” said Arthur, and clapped her on the back, “but it’s good fun.”

As it was none of them never found out whether hunting was good for broken hearts (or friendships), because at that moment there was a ferocious roar from somewhere not far off enough for Merlin’s liking, and the four of them froze.

“Oh, what _now_ ,” Merlin said, because it was truly ridiculous that he had to contend with Arthur _as well_ as some outlandish beast, but Arthur clapped his hand over his mouth, which was frankly just rude.

“Shush,” he hissed, and, inexplicably, began to creep _towards_ the noise.

Morgana, Gwen and Merlin exchanged looks, and begrudgingly followed him (maybe Arthur’s plan _was_ working, after all). They sneaked throughout the forest, then abruptly drew up short, because of the (and we will not mince our words, here) absolutely fucking terrifying creature in front of them.

“Oh…kay…” said Arthur, and all four of them abruptly turned tail and sprinted. Arthur grabbed Guinevere, who was closest, and Morgana grabbed Merlin, who allowed himself quite happily to be pulled in any direction so long as it was away from _that_. _That_ being something at least twenty times the size of him, with the head of a snake and the body of a leopard, and there was probably a few other creatures thrown in there as well, but Merlin was not exactly stopping to have a good look.

Hand in hand, their conflict over Uther forgotten, he and Morgana pushed through the forest, in a vague sense following Arthur, but mostly just running wherever their legs would take them. Merlin stumbled, and Morgana, holding onto him as she was, did also; the two of them ended up splayed on the ground. Merlin could not think of a curse good enough, and anyway he didn’t have the breath for it.

“ _Morgana!”_ shrieked Gwen, in the distance, as the beast towered over them. Morgana kicked frantically backwards with her feet, and Merlin scrambled similarly on his heels and elbows. He threw up his hand, could think of no spell useful enough to get him out of this mess, and it was only Morgana throwing herself on him and rolling them both over that the creature did not have his guts for garters.

“Move!” she yelled, and finally managed to her feet, and hauled Merlin to his, sloppily pulling him in the direction of Arthur and Gwen.

“Thanks,” he panted, and Morgana did, actually, grin at him.

“Pretty rubbish for a sorcerer,” she said, and Merlin felt like they were alright again. They raced through the forest, caught up with Arthur and Gwen, and none of them stopped until they could no longer hear the thrashing of the beast behind them, at which point they came to a halt, heaving and gasping, more than one of them bent double from the effort.

“Are you alright?” demanded Arthur, at all of them, in his _knight-of-Camelot_ voice, and checked them over with his eyes. “Morgana? Gwen?”

Neither of them answered. Gwen, heedless entirely of the fact that Merlin and Arthur were there, and that her and Morgana were in a fight, crossed to her and threw her arms around her neck. Morgana caught her, one hand flying to the back of her head, and held her there, Gwen’s legs dangling in the air. Merlin and Arthur exchanged a look; Arthur had the audacity to look as if this was somehow all his doing, and Merlin had opened his mouth to spit some insult about his intelligence at him (he hadn’t decided which) when Morgana and Gwen pulled away from each other, and smashed their faces together.

‘Smashed’ was how Merlin described it, anyway; it did look a bit brutal, because their noses ended up all squashed together. He gawked at them, still trying to catch his breath, and pulled an incredulous face at Arthur, who looked just as bewildered.

“Well that’s that, then,” said Arthur, feebly, and cleared his throat. Neither Gwen nor Morgana showed any signs of hearing them. “I dearly hope you and I aren’t reuniting similarly.”

“What the hell was that thing?” asked Merlin, instead of addressing this comment. Arthur made a face. It said he was very lost, and also that he would have liked to be thinking _I’m not paid enough for this_ if the turn of phrase had existed, and also applied in this circumstance.

“Whatever it was, we need to inform the citadel immediately,” said Arthur, and so he and Merlin went to do just that, all while arguing about what exactly had made up which bits of the beast. Morgana and Gwen decided that they would not, in fact, be accompanying them, and would instead be working out where exactly they stood with one another, and returned to Morgana’s chambers. Gwen realised at once that something was amiss.

“You’ve been dreaming,” she said, appalled, and instantly felt terrible for not having been there for her. Morgana waved her hand in Gwen’s general direction, much the same way Arthur did sometimes.

“It’s no worse than usual,” she said, but Gwen was not fooled. Morgana collapsed in her dining chair, not even bothering to remove her cloak. She looked deathly pale against the red fabric, and without her usual lip colour. Guilt welled up in Gwen.

“It is. Oh, Morgana…”

Morgana smiled at her, but it looked more like a grimace. “It doesn’t matter, Gwen. How are you?”

She said this nervously, and Gwen crossed to her, sitting opposite her and placing her hand on Morgana’s knee. Morgana looked down at it.

“I’ve been better,” admitted Gwen, and ducked down to catch Morgana’s eye. “Lonely.”

“Yes,” said Morgana. She pressed her lips together. “Gwen, you were right. I— I despise Uther. I wasn’t wrong for wanting to bring justice to him; to all the people he’s killed. But—I love you. And you loved your father. And I shouldn’t have let something ugly be born of that love.”

“Thank you,” whispered Gwen, and squeezed Morgana’s knee. Morgana chanced a look at her, her eyes tired.

“I never meant to cause you suffering, I promise you. I only—” Here Morgana paused, and looked away. Gwen tilted her head, trying to catch her gaze, but Morgana avoided it, staring resolutely at her fruit bowl instead.

“How can you love me?” Morgana finally asked, in a broken voice. “I could not save your father, I could not help him. How can you love me when I let him die? All that suffering… I had to—to return you something, to make it right. To make it just.”

Gwen cupped her cheek, pulling her face round to look her in the eye. “Morgana. I love you because you are good, and kind, and noble. You are stubborn and you are headstrong and you fight for what you believe in, and yes, you are reckless. You are reckless and you are angry but you are my _lady_. I have always hoped you would be queen.”

Morgana inhaled sharply. Gwen stroked her cheekbone; “You know that I would take your pain away if I could.”

“And I yours,” said Morgana. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Gwen’s. “I could not live with myself having hurt you.”

“ _You_ did not hurt me,” answered Gwen, but kept herself from saying anything further, as she did not particularly want to talk of Uther when she was planning on kissing his ward right afterward. “But you must— _talk_ to me, in future. _Ask_ me how to make it right, do not presume to know my wishes. I am my own person, Morgana, I exist beyond being your confidant. You cannot love me just because I am the only one available to be loved.” 

Morgana swallowed.

“You asked me if I would have you,” Gwen continued, her voice hushed. “But will you have _me?_ ”

“As if I could want anyone else,” said Morgana, quite seriously, and Gwen grinned at her, feeling the heaviness drain from her shoulders. “I’m ruined for you, dearest.”

Gwen kissed the corner of her mouth, cradling Morgana’s face in her hands, and then drew back. Morgana’s eyes were closed, but her lips were a little upturned.

“I suppose this means I’m coming back to work,” she teased, and Morgana smiled properly.

“I have missed your company,” admitted Morgana. “But you needn’t come back if you do not wish to; the offer of ladyship still stands.”

Gwen smiled at her. “I will come back,” she said, and Morgana’s eyes finally opened, and she squeezed Gwen’s hand.

So they were alright, and while this was occurring plans were being drawn up in the court, and Gaius was announcing to everyone that the monster Arthur had encountered was the Questing Beast, which traditionally forewarned of a period of great upheaval, and was just a generally bad omen. Whether this was actually true remained to be seen, but either way Arthur was to take the knights on a hunt for it; they were to leave the following morning.

Between now and then there was of course the dark hours in which Camelot slept, and though Morgana had tired herself out by sword-fighting Arthur (which had been quite a good choice of method, on his part, of cheering her up), and running from a deadly beast, not to mention the emotional exhaustion from conversing with Gwen, she slept awfully.

We have not spoken much of Morgana’s dreams, for they usually left her upon waking, and they were too scattered to be of much use, but this evening’s remained with her, and caused her a good deal of psychological distress; she awoke not knowing if Arthur was alive or dead, her flesh cold and clammy as a fish, and she ran from her bedroom without caution, flinging herself down Camelot’s steps, half convinced she was still asleep, and operating on that dream-logic. She knew— _knew—_ that if Arthur were allowed to leave this morning he would die, and what good would that do anyone? Certainly very little, and it was up to Morgana to stop it.

“Arthur,” she gasped as she reached him, and grabbed him by his armour, shaking in her nightgown. This action, and the sprint she had partaken in to get down to the castle’s steps in time, had amassed quite the crowd of concerned onlookers, who were now debating amongst themselves over the relative mental sanity of the king’s ward. “Arthur, you cannot go, you mustn’t go! I’ve seen such terrible things—such terrible—you cannot go—”

Arthur grabbed her by wrists, looking at her and around at his knights in shock, trying to contain her and force her arms back to her sides. He had never seen her like this, and was quite shaken, but he managed to keep his head. “Morgana, _stop_ —stop it, it’s alright, _Morgana—_ Merlin, get her out of here—”

Merlin wrapped his arms around her waist, and physically yanked her from Arthur; Morgana clawed at his sleeve, kicking her legs. “No, _no_ , Merlin, you mustn’t—”

Really they should have listened to her, but rather than heed her words they all thought her mad (except for Merlin, who of course knew the truth of Morgana’s nightmares, but he could not very well do anything about convincing anyone else), and Morgana was practically forced into taking a sleeping sedative. This was certainly ethically suspect, and she spent the next few hours tossing and turning and mumbling under her breath, while Gwen sat and stroked her forehead, murmuring soft nothings to her in an attempt to bring her peace. It was perhaps, though, a blessing; Morgana did not have to wait the hours out in wakeful agony, and by the time she woke up Arthur had already returned (unconscious and bitten by the beast, and almost certainly on his deathbed unless Merlin had anything to say about it), and everyone said that she had missed the worst of it.

“Merlin,” said Morgana, and snatched his sleeve from the shadows in which she was lurking, looking like something from a nightmare, her eyes not her own. “The worst is yet to come.”

Merlin was understandably unnerved, and withdrew his arm from her, hesitantly breaking her hold on the fabric. “You need to get some sleep, Morgana,” he said. “I promise it’s all going to be alright.”

Morgana shook her head, but let him go; she moved half in a trance, her feet moving without direction, and eventually she found herself at Arthur’s bedside, looking down at his sickly face, sheened as it was with sweat. Her jaw trembled, mouth moving as she muttered soundlessly to herself (as she had been all day), and her hands fluttered over him, dancing over his chest and brow, searching for purpose. Quite unbeknownst to her, her eyes were burning gold.

She did this for some time, and we will tell you some of what she said, which was in the tongue of her homeland, and she had not used since her father’s death. It was a prayer dimly remembered from childhood, addressed to the fae, and there had always been something of that in Morgana, swirling ignored in her veins, which now wished to come out.

“Ní maith le nimh nathair, nimh an mhadra, géire na sleá, an duine,” murmured Morgana, under her breath, and then clambered up onto Arthur’s bed on her knees, leaning over him and placing her hands on his wounds. “Iarraim ar thriúr iníonacha Fliethas in aghaidh an nathair; beannacht ar an gcorp seo a leigheas.”

When she had said this she gave a great big gasp, and collapsed next to him — in harmony their breathing evened out. The both of them slept dreamlessly, at peace, for using such magic had all but drained it from Morgana, and she had not the energy to conjure nightmares. That was how Gwen found them; Arthur on his back, looking a little better, and Morgana curled beside him, her hand on his heart. She wet the cloth at Arthur’s bedside, and ran it over his forehead.

“You’re not going to die, Arthur,” whispered Gwen, after a quick glance to check they were both definitely unconscious. She had not been in to tend to him yet, and was a bit frightened by his state, as she did not want to lose a friend so soon after gaining one. “I’m telling you. You’re not going to die, because I know that one day you’re going to be king. A greater king than your father could ever be.”

She brushed a bit of hair from his face. “Also, I don’t believe you would allow yourself to die having never beaten me at chess. You’re rather stubborn about losing to girls.”

She smiled a little to herself at this, and pressed the cloth to his brow, mopping up the sweat.

“You’re a good man, Arthur.” she said, and gathered up the courage to take his hand. She patted it twice. “Someday everybody in the kingdom will see that, too.”

Arthur of course would not die, because Merlin was currently seeing to it, but after he awoke he was confined to bed for two days by Gaius, and it was Gwen and Morgana who mostly kept him company during this time, even though Arthur teased them relentlessly; for Gwen’s kind words, and the fact that he’d found out Morgana had apparently been so worried about him that she’d shared his bed.

“I suppose this means I should never try to beat you at chess, Guinevere,” he said, grinning despite looking rather knackered. His arm was in a sling, and his shirt was a bit haphazard because he’d had to put on himself, with a great deal of grumbling about the whereabouts of his idiot manservant. “That way I shall never be killed.”

“I hope she lets you win,” said Morgana, who although she was still exhausted, looked much less frightening than she had the last three weeks. “ _That_ way we wouldn’t have to put up with you.”

“Now now, Morgana,” said Arthur, “we can’t have any of that. Your secret’s out; you _like_ me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” said Morgana, prudishly. “You’re an obnoxious little twerp.”

Arthur elbowed her with his good arm, which he could do because she was sitting beside him on his bed, leaning against the headboard and his shoulder while the three of them were playing cards, with absolutely no regard for what was proper when it came to their respective classes and genders. Arthur might have put up a fuss at any other time, but as it was he liked the company, and it wasn’t like anyone was around to see them, anyway. Morgana was wearing no shoes; Gwen at least was sitting on a stool.

“I heard how worried you were about me,” said Arthur. “Really, Morgana, I’m starting to think you protest too much.”

Gwen snickered, then blushed at the action, wondering if it was her place. Arthur beamed childishly at her; Morgana looked betrayed.

“See, Gwen agrees at me!”

“Gwen agrees with everyone,” retorted Morgana, but she sounded more proud than anything. “She’s just too nice to tell you you’re terrible.”

They carried on this way for some time, because they were waiting for something they could not determine. There was simply a sense among them all that something (or someone, rather) was missing, and so they drew out their game, and then another, and then finally it arrived, in the form (as you have naturally guessed) of Merlin.

He shut the door behind him softly, leaning back against it. It was night-time and the candles were lit, and so Arthur’s room was the picture of cosiness, and Merlin’s heart (which had been rather battered by the last few days) expanded in his chest, and he felt so warm and relieved that he nearly sank to the floor there and then. He managed not to, though, and a good thing too, for Arthur at this moment spotted him, and lit up.

“There you are,” he said, and grinned fondly at him. “All that serious talk, I thought you’d gone off to do something stupid.”

Gwen also turned to see Merlin, and smiles crossed both her and Morgana’s faces. What was Merlin supposed to do in the face of such friends? He smiled back.

“Me, stupid?” repeated Merlin, and wandered over, taking the hand Gwen outstretched to him without thinking, and squeezing it. He had not told anyone what his plan had been with Nimueh and the cup of life, and it was over now anyway, but there was a sense among all of them that they had passed through something, and come out the other side alright, and that they should be relieved about it. Arthur looked particularly pleased.

“What?” asked Merlin, and sat on the stool beside Gwen, dealing himself a hand of cards.

“Nothing,” Arthur said, rather than launching into a tirade about how he had solved all their problems, and got them all back to being friends. Merlin knew what he was thinking, though, and responded as if he had heard the speech anyway.

“You’re not special,” he said, and Arthur kicked at him, so that his cards fell out of his hands and onto the floor. Merlin gathered them up, and then quite unexpectedly Arthur’s own cards flew from his hands, for a reason he could not identify (but he supposed must have been a faltering of his fingers, which were obviously still feeling the aftermath of the Questing Beast’s poison), and ended up splayed face-up on the covers, so they could all see what he’d got.

“Oh, excellent,” said Morgana, and leaned forward to grab two. “I’ll take those fours, please.”

“And I’ll have the queen,” said Gwen, and pinched it as well. They grinned at each other, and Arthur made some grand claims about fairness and honourable sportsmanship, which Merlin rebutted and in some instances simply laughed at, but in the end they dealt out a new round of cards, and started afresh.

“You’re falling asleep,” said Arthur, when Merlin’s eyelids started to droop, and poked him in the face with his big toe (since it was the only thing close enough to reach). Merlin made a great deal of noise about this, and there was a flurry of commotion, which ended with both Arthur’s shins trapped under Merlin’s arms, and there they stayed for the remainder of the evening. Gwen had her face propped up on her hand, and was stifling yawns into it — they were staying awake for Arthur, who had been given something for the pain which made sleep impossible, and so you can see that he really did have friends after all.

All in all it was quite a different scene that we leave them on than the one they started in, and though it had begun as Gwen’s doing it was really now in the hands of all of them. What, exactly, was in their hands remained to be seen, for it was a bit jumbled up and smudged in places, but certainly the bit about Morgana being evil had crossed itself out, and an addendum or two had been added, as well as a good few notes in the margins. In their midst there was a high priestess, and the future king and queen of Camelot, and more than one sorcerer who was using their talents to cheat at _Go Fish,_ and these titles were not at all mutually exclusive, remember. The four of them were quite extraordinary, when it came down to it.

A few more things were yet to come their way (the sword in the anvil and the witchfinder for two, and Sirs Gwaine and Lancelot, and of course we would be remiss to forget that blasted dragon, who would probably be escaping at some point), but for now we will leave them here, and rest assured that they will look after one another, and be in safe hands for at least a good while yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, there we are then. if you've made it to the end, thank you! if you've left a comment along the way, please know that it's placed the hugest grin on my face and the warmest feeling in my heart! 
> 
> morgana's prayer for arthur is an ancient irish prayer, which hopefully (i did use google for it) translates to something along the lines of: "The poison of a serpent, the venom of the dog, the sharpness of the spear, doth not well in man. I invoke the three daughters of Fliethas against the serpent; benediction on this body to be healed.” i just thought it was neat <3
> 
> this is also, gasp, a wrap on part one! there are theoretically two more parts to come, but i make no promises as to when (or if) they'll be written. if you would like to be notified when it’s up, i recommend you subscribe to the series! <3
> 
> from the bottom of my heart i hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it (which was lots!), and if you've left kudos, commented or bookmarked, thank you!! i'll hope to see you again soon. much love XX


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